A/N: I know that I start every author's note the same way, but it's very important that I give a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who as reviewed, favorited, and alerted this story! You guys are awesome. Seriously.

Hmm, what to add to the disclaimer . . .

Random Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks . . . still think I own HG?

Chapter 5

"Alright, I know that we talked about how you two are going to act together, but I need to know your strengths," Haymitch says.

It is the morning of our first day of training. It's just Peeta and I with Haymitch at the table.

Peeta is the first to speak, but it's not about himself. "Katniss is good with a bow."

Haymitch raises his eyebrows at me. "How good?"

"I hunt," I explain. But how good am I really? I'm sure there are people that are better . . . I just haven't met one. Am I really that good? Not all of my shots are clean, but they've gotten the job done. "I'm alright," I concede.

Peeta scoffs and looks at Haymitch. "My father and I buy her squirrels. Every shot is clean through the eye. Every time."

The fact that Peeta is talking me up is rubbing me the wrong way. What about him? "What about you?" I ask, looking at him. "You're really strong."

Peeta makes a face. "What good is strength?"

I roll my eyes and look at Haymitch. "I've seen him in the market. He lifts hundred pound bags of flour like they're nothing."

"Yeah, and I'm sure that the arena will be full of sacks of flour for me to chuck at people," Peeta says dryly.

"He wrestles too," I tell Haymitch. Why is Peeta being so self-deprecating? Oh, right. Because he's Peeta. "He came in second at our school competition last year, only behind his brother." I remember that day and add wryly, "And that's only because he let him win anyway."

Peeta's eyes widened. "How'd you know that?"

"Oh, come on, Mellark," I say exasperated. "It was so obvious! You moved just a little too slow at just the right time, and let him pin you."

"Well what good is wrestling anyway?" Peeta ignores the fact that I'm right. "How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?"

"There's always hand to hand combat!" I tell him. Why is he being so stubborn? "If you get a knife you have a chance! If I get jumped, I'm dead!"

"Oh, please, Katniss," Peeta shakes his head. "You'll be sitting high up in a tree, eating squirrels and picking off people one by one!"

"You know what my mother said to me when she came to say goodbye?" he asks suddenly. "As if to cheer me up, she says that maybe District 12 will have a winner this year. But then I realized that she didn't mean me. She meant you."

I wave him off dismissively. "No she didn't."

"She said 'she's a survivor, that one,'" Peeta says, his eyes showing hurt. "She."

By the pain in his eyes, I know that he's telling the truth. Anger wells within me at the thought of her saying such a thing to him. He's Peeta for crying out loud! Peeta doesn't deserve that. He deserves so much more.

I'm pretty sure my anger is showing on my face because Peeta is looking at me apologetically. He thinks I'm mad at him. I have to set him straight, but I don't think I can call his mother a bitch again. This place may be bugged and I don't want all of Panem to know what I think of Mrs. Mellark. So instead, I simply say in a flat voice, "Well, you know what I think of your mother."

I see Peeta's eyes widen ever so slightly in understanding, and he offers me a soft, little smile in thanks.

"Besides." My mind flashes back to a cold night in the rain. "I only survived because someone helped me."

Peeta's eyes meet mine and I know he's remembering that night too. "People will help you in the arena," he says. "They will be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

"No more than you," I shoot back.

Peeta rolls his eyes and looks at Haymitch, "She has no idea. The effect she can have."

I frown. What the hell does that mean? I have an effect on people? Ha.

"The effect I have?" I repeat. "How about the effect you have?"

Peeta opens his mouth to argue, but Haymitch cuts him off. "That's enough," he shakes his head. "If you two are done arguing about who is better, we have other things to discuss."

I send one last glare at Peeta before bringing my attention to Haymitch.

Haymitch looks between both of us. "Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, say clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

I frown. Trapping and snares were Gale's area of expertise, but he had taught me a few. "I know some basic snares."

Haymitch nods. "That may be significant in terms of food." He turns his attention to Peeta. "And Katniss is right," he begins and I can't help but smirk at Peeta in triumph. He ignores me. "Never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?"

Peeta and I nod.

"Great!" He takes a swig from his flask. "Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training, and don't forget about what we talked about last night!"

Peeta and I rise from the table and by a silent consensus retreat up to the roof. I make my way straight toward the garden, and I hear Peeta's loud footfalls following me.

The garden looks different in the morning light, and I can fully appreciate its beauty now. A sea of color surrounds me, blossoms of all shapes and sizes. The potted trees are spaced out symmetrically, the crystal chimes hanging from the limbs glittering rainbows on every available surface.

"You should give yourself more credit," Peeta says as he comes to stand beside me.

"Right back at ya, Mellark." Peeta looks down at the ground. "She's wrong you know," I say. "You can win these Games."

"No, I can't," he shakes his head. "I don't want to."

"What?" I stare at him like he's grown an extra head. "What do you mean?"

"I can't live with that on my conscience." Peeta takes a deep breath and stares out across the garden. "If I win that means that everyone else will die." He looks at me, something shining in his eyes that I don't recognize, but it makes me want to blush. "You would die. I can't live with that."

"So?" I ask, and he frowns at me. "If I win that means you die."

"Peeta, you're smart," I tell him, hardly noticing that I've used his first name twice since the reaping. "Smarter than all of us. That's your greatest weapon."

"Maybe," he agrees, but I can tell he's just saying that to placate me.

We stand in silence for the next few minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I can't believe that Peeta doesn't want to win. It bothers me in a way that I can't describe. Why wouldn't he want to live? And if he doesn't want to live, why has he been seemingly playing to win since the moment we arrived in the Capitol? Peeta is smart. I wasn't lying when I told him that he was the smartest one here. He is. Even if he doesn't plan to win, he must have some plan. He has to.

"What are you doing?" I ask him. "What's your plan for the Games?"

Peeta smiles at me, though there's a sad determination in his eyes. "It's a secret."

I don't like this answer. I don't like it at all.

"Tell me," I demand, but he shakes his head. "Peeta." To my surprise his name escapes my lips in a pleading whisper. "Please."

In response, the sadness in Peeta's eyes seems to deepen. But he still has a genuine, small smile on his face. "You know that's the second time you've said my name in the last minute," he teases.

"Peeta—"

"Oh, there's three."

"Damn it, Mellark!" I growl in frustration. "Will you just stop?"

Peeta takes a step toward me and invades my personal space like he did last night. His lips turn up at the corners and he gives a playful, gentle tug on the end of my braid. "Will you stop worrying about me?" he asks.

I shake my head, and he sighs. "Why not?"

"Because," I say. "You're my friend."

My answer causes the sadness in Peeta's eyes to flare again. "We better head back inside," he says. "We don't want to get Effie off schedule."

Annoyed by his evasiveness, I turn away from him and stalk back inside. My feet stomp down the stairs, and I practically march to the elevator. Why is Peeta so complicated? It's hardly fair that he won't tell me what his plan is. In mere days, he has gotten me to accept the fact that we're friends and suddenly I'm calling him by his first name. Does he realize how hard this is for me? To accept his friendship, knowing that we're probably both going to die . . . I'm opening myself up to pain, the emotional kind. Does he realize how hard that is for me? My father's death crippled me in ways that I can't explain. I can't lose anyone else that I care about. Why doesn't Peeta see that? The least he owes me is to tell me his plan.

Peeta joins me at the elevator. Surprisingly, Effie isn't here waiting for us, so I figure we must be a little early. We stand there stiffly beside each other. I'm mad at him and he appears to be upset with me as well. At least we're both unhappy together.

Finally, Peeta sighs and looks at me. "We can't go down there like this."

"Why not?" I snap.

"Because we're supposed to be hinting that there's something more between us," he replies. "We can't do that if we're fighting."

"What?" I question smartly. "Isn't there something called a lover's spat?"

Peeta huffs. "You're making jokes. Great."

"I thought it was funny."

"Katniss," Peeta sighs and places his hands on my shoulders. "We have to play this right. You know that. One screw up and we're done." Suddenly, he lifts his hand to cradle the side of my face. Immediately, my heart begins to race. What's happening to me? What effect does Peeta Mellark have on me? "We can't mess this up," he repeats softly. "I'm sorry I can't tell you what my plan is, but you're just going to have to deal with it."

I open my mouth to reply, but the sound of Effie's heels causes my lips to seal shut. Peeta's hand drops back down to his side and I regret the loss of warmth. Ugh, where are all these feelings coming from? I decide I have to ignore it. I don't have time to decipher them.

"Oh, there you are!" Effie chirps. "I went to find you, but you weren't in your rooms. Where have you been?"

"We must have just missed each other, Effie," Peeta lies smoothly. It really does bother me how easily he can lie, but I can appreciate this lie. I don't want Effie to know about the roof. It's becoming our secret escape, and I want it to stay that way—secret.

"Ah, well, must have," she says. "Now, off we go!"

The training rooms are below ground level, so the elevator ride doesn't last for more than a minute or so. However, that one minute is enough time for my anxiety to rise. It's just occurring to me that I'm about to be with the rest of the tributes. People who I am going to be fighting in the arena. We're all going to be together, training for it. The whole idea just screams wrongness.

Right before the elevator doors open, Peeta takes my hand and I'm grateful. He's my anchor, always keeping me steady. Effie leads us out of the elevator, and the moment we step off, two Capitol people come up to us and pin the number 12 on our backs. I take a quick look around to see that everyone else has had their District number pinned to their back as well. I also notice that Peeta and I are the only ones in matching outfits. Emphasizing how we're a team.

Effie leaves us, wishing us good luck and a happy time. All of the tributes are gathered in a loose circle. Peeta and I are last to arrive. When we join the group, all eyes are on us, and I try not to let it intimidate me. They're sizing us up, seeing if we're worth all the buzz we're getting.

A tall, athletic woman who introduces herself as Atala begins to explain to us how the training schedule is going to work. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations; however, we are allowed to move from station to station as we choose. The stations vary. Survival skills. Edible plants. Knot tying. Fighting techniques. The main rule she stresses is that there is not to be any fighting done between the tributes. A sparring partner will be provided if desired.

As Atala keeps talking, I examine the tributes. I fight a frown as I realize that practically all of the boys and half of the girls are bigger than me, even if they haven't been fed properly. I recognize the signs of hunger in them. The vast majority are thin. Sunken cheeks. Hollow eyes. I may be small, but that means that I'm quick. I may be thin, but I'm strong. I have an advantage over them in the fact that the exertion of hunting has given me a healthier body than most of them.

And then there are the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4. The volunteers. Although it's technically illegal, the children in these districts train for the Games. They are fed properly and trained to be deadly. The boys all have at least a hundred pounds on me and are at least a head taller than me. Even the girls make me look like a dwarf in comparison. At home, we call them Career Tributes, or simply Careers. They almost always win. And, more than likely, they will again this year.

The slight advantage I believed I held has fled in the presence of my competition. The Careers are glaring at me in contempt. It wasn't us they were jealous of last night at the opening ceremonies. They were jealous of Portia and Cinna, our stylists.

When Atala dismisses us, the Careers immediately head for the weapons station and begin to wield them with ease. Not a minute into training and they're already trying to intimidate everyone.

They're succeeding.

"Where to?" Peeta asks quietly.

"Say we tie some knots?" I suggest mildly, giving his hand a tug and leading us to the station.

The instructor looks thrilled to have students. I guess knot tying isn't a hot spot. Once it shows that I have an idea of what I'm doing, he gets excited and shows us a few snares. We spend an hour perfecting a snare that will leave someone dangling by their leg from a tree. We stay for a while longer before my fingers begin to get tired and I suggest we move on to another station.

Peeta heads toward the camouflage station, and I see a light entering his eye. I remember that he's an artist. This will actually be fun for him. I watch, an amused smile pulling at my lips despite myself as he looks at all the available camouflage materials. The instructor sees Peeta's interest and asks if Peeta knows anything about camouflage.

"My family owns a bakery," he explains. "I do the cakes."

"Which are very beautiful," I add, and Peeta chuckles and looks at the instructor with a charming smile.

"She's biased," he explains, sending a playful grin my way that makes me blush, probably just like he'd intended.

He's doing what Haymitch asked. Hinting at something more. Subtle.

Peeta gets to work after a few more words with the instructor. I watch him curiously as he concentrates on the materials in front of him. A furrow appears between his brow, and his eyes are so focused that I wonder if he would eventually burn a hole in the floor.

Finally, he seems to decide what he's going to do, and he nods to himself. He begins to take some mud and clay and swirl it around on his arm. He mixes some berry juices in it and to my surprise it makes the color of the mud and clay turn a more natural color. It adds texture, taking away some uniformity. I watch as he weaves bits of vine and leaves into the mud. He seems to be making a pattern and I realize that he's trying to mirror sunlight coming through the leaves of trees. How would he even know what that looked like? I doubt he's ventured into the forest.

After a little more than half an hour, he declares that he's done. "Wow," I say. The final result is spectacular. "That's really good, Peeta." I make sure to say his first name, figuring that saying 'Mellark' as I normally do would detract from our goal of 'hinting at something more.'

"Thanks," he grins at me. "You wanna try?"

"Ha." I shake my head. "Let's leave this as your area of expertise."

"Oh, come on," he chides. "It's fun."

"I'm not in the mood to smear mud on my arm," I say definitively and Peeta pouts. Pouts.

And that's when I notice that the instructor is watching us with an amused smile.

At least we know that someone's hoping we're more than friends.

"Pretty please?" Peeta continues to pout and honestly he looks so pathetically adorable that I finally concede.

After half an hour it's clear that I'm hopeless at camouflage. "See?" I say as I look down at my arm, which looks nothing like Peeta's, which I'd tried to copy. "This is your thing. I'm no good at this."

"You're right," Peeta agrees solemnly. "You're terrible."

I smear mud on his cheek. "Watch it, Mellark," I warn playfully. "I know where you sleep at night."

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Peeta's eyebrows disappear under his blonde curls in surprise. A smirk quickly appears on his face. "I'll make sure to lock the door."

We leave the camouflage instructor thoroughly convinced we're more than friends.

The rest of the training goes on like this. Peeta and I make our way through the more boring stations. I ace edible plants, my time in the forest serving me well. Peeta, despite Haymitch's order to appear mediocre at best, excels in hand to hand combat, pinning the assistant from the Capitol rather quickly. I actually don't do too badly at hand to hand myself, though mainly I just dodge and make my opponent eventually trip over his own feet.

Just as I'm thinking that we're about to make it out the first day without an incident, District 2 intervenes. Peeta and I are passing the weight lifting station, on our way to the elevator. We've been dismissed, although the Careers have lingered at their station, doing a few more reps. The boy from District 2, whom I learned over the course of the day is named Cato, is squatting what appears to be a pretty substantial weight. I'm only guessing because of the size of the weights on each end of the bar.

As we pass, he continues to do repetitions and calls out to us. "Hey 12!" For some reason I think he is really referring to just me. Peeta and I both stop and look back at him. "Nice outfit last night."

I purse my lips. "Cinna and Portia outdid themselves," I say, showing as little emotion as possible.

Cato continues to do repetitions. I know what he's doing. Trying to intimidate us. While the fact that he can hold that much weight is worrying, the fact that he seems to have singled us out is even more troublesome. I see out of the corner of my eye a few instructors watching us warily.

"Well, you know what they say," Cato grins maliciously. "You play with fire, you might get burned."

"We'll keep that in mind," Peeta says and I turn away to walk to the elevator, but Peeta's next words stop me. "How much weight is that?"

I turn back around, fighting to control my expression. What is Peeta doing?

Cato laughs raucously. "What? You think you can squat it?"

"No. I think I can bench it."

This only makes Cato laugh harder and the other Careers around him join in. A snake of fear begins to coil in my stomach. What does Peeta think he's doing? Haymitch said to stay away from weights! He's not supposed to show how much he can lift!

Cato drops the bar and the weights crash down on the floor loudly. "Be my guest," he makes a grand gesture toward the bench press as two assistants haul up the bar and place it in the rack above the press.

Peeta walks over to the bench press and lays on his back, getting situated. He reaches up and grabs the bar, nodding at the assistant standing behind him who is going to spot him. Peeta clenches his jaw and then begins to lift.

One rep.

Two reps.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I watch, stunned, as Peeta continues on, never pausing.

Six.

This is not good.

Seven.

We're in so much trouble.

Eight.

Haymitch is going to be so mad.

Nine.

But this is kinda hot . . .

Ten.

Wait, what?

Peeta rests the bar back in its cradle above his head and sits up. "Thanks for that," he says to Cato, who is looking murderous at being made a fool. "That was fun."

Peeta gets up and makes his way over to me. He gives me a dazzling smile and throws his arm around me, pulling me in close to his side. I wrap my arm around his waist accordingly and even lean into him a little. We reach the elevator and when the doors open we step inside. Peeta hits the 12 button and when we turn around, I see that Cato and the Careers are glaring at us. I know that Peeta sees this too, but he doesn't react. Instead, he presses a kiss to my temple just as the doors close.

Immediately, I push myself away from him. "What the hell was that, Mellark?" I whisper heatedly. "Haymitch told you not to show how much you can lift!"

"I didn't."

"Huh?" I ask stupidly.

Peeta grins. "I didn't show them how much I can lift."

"You mean," I pause as I realize what he's saying. "You mean that you can lift more?"

Peeta nods.

I'm floundering. "How much weight was that?"

Peeta thinks for a minute. "Felt like about three hundred."

I feel my jaw drop. Three hundred pounds. Peeta, looking way too impressed with himself, theatrically places a finger under my jaw and shuts it for me. "You're catching flies," he smirks.

I shove his hand away from me. "How much can you lift, then?" I ask dazedly.

"I max out at around three seventy-five," he says with a shrug.

Practically four hundred pounds. My district partner can lift almost four hundred pounds.

"You're so screwed, you know that, right?" I tell him. "Haymitch is gonna rip you a new one."

"Probably."

I frown at Peeta. "Why'd you do it?"

"He has you in his sights," Peeta repeats the same thing he said last night after opening ceremonies. "So I took a little attention off you."

He's watching out for me. Again.

I don't have time to reply before the elevator doors open to reveal Effie and Haymitch, who immediately begin to interrogate us about our day. As I predicted, Haymitch blows up at Peeta for challenging Cato and lifting weights. Peeta tells Haymitch the same thing he told me, but this does very little to appease our mentor. We do put him in a slightly better mood when we tell him of our success in hinting at something more in our relationship, which is only later confirmed when we turn on the TV and the commentators are talking about us, saying that they have sources indicating that Peeta and I are much more than friends.

The next three days pass by in a blur. While we eat breakfast and dinner with Haymitch and Effie, we eat lunch with the other tributes in the cafeteria next to the gymnasium where we train. As expected, the Careers, headed by Cato, occupy a table. They're rowdy and loud, acting like they don't have a care in the world. The rest of the tributes space out and eat alone. Peeta and I sit together and try to make small talk, which is not my strong suit, but somehow I manage it with Peeta.

We don't talk about home much, it's too painful. So instead, we focus on other things. We ask each other silly, childish questions. What's your favorite color? What's your favorite food? The inane questions went on and on, but I learned a lot I didn't know about Peeta.

His favorite color is orange, like the sunset. His favorite food was squirrel, but he's decided that his recent discovery of hot chocolate has claimed the title. He likes to sleep with the windows open, and he double-knots his shoelaces.

On the second day as we go through the stations again, we pick up a little shadow. Rue, the twelve year old girl tribute from District 11. I thought she looked young when we watched the reapings, but in person she honestly looks no more than ten years old. She's a tiny thing, but admittedly she's adorable. She reminds me so much of Prim.

Rue follows us from station to station and I learn that she's good with plants like I am, can climb like a squirrel, and can hit a target every time with a slingshot. But really, what good is a slingshot against a 220-pound male?

Since the weight lifitng incident with Peeta, the District 2 tribute, Cato, has been sending us glares every chance he gets, which is often. Peeta and I ignore him.

The third day is our session with the Gamemakers. I'd seen them in the training room the past few days, observing us sometimes from a room with a large window that overlooks the training room. Other times they were more focused on the never-ending banquet that was provided for them. I always pretended that they weren't there.

They call us by District. First the boy tribute and then the girl. This means that I will be the very last person to go. The cafeteria slowly filters out until it is just Peeta and me. We sit at the table silently, though Peeta is fidgeting, bouncing his knee up and down. I'd noticed that it's a nervous habit of his. However, the hunter in me can't stand it and I place my hand on his knee. He promptly freezes and looks at me. I blush and withdraw my hand.

"Don't be nervous," I tell him to distract myself. "You'll do fine."

They call Peeta's name then and he stands. "Remember the weights," I say before I can stop myself. "And maybe show them some camouflage if you have time."

Peeta grins at me. "Thanks, I will. You shoot straight, alright?"

I nod and watch as he disappears from the room. Now that I'm alone my nerves really begin to twist my stomach into knots. I didn't realize how much of a difference Peeta's presence made. It occurs to me that I am not only nervous for myself, but for Peeta as well. I want him to get a good score.

After fifteen minutes my name is called and I make my way into the room for my private session. The minute I step into the room I know I'm in trouble. The Gamemakers have been here too long. I'm the last of twenty four tributes and they're too tired and ready to go home to care. They're much more interested in the wine and the food than a girl from the coal district.

My eyes zero in on the bow and arrows in the middle of the room. I scan the gymnasium as I pick up my weapon. There is a small target range set up, but it's not enough for me to really show off how good I am. I spot a dummy used for knife practice in the back corner and make my way toward it.

However, the moment I knock an arrow and pull back the string, I know that something is wrong. The string is tighter than I'm used to. The arrow is more rigid. I let the arrow fly and it misses the dummy by a few inches. Humiliation floods me, and I know that whatever attention I'd commanded when I'd walked into the room, I have just lost.

I soldier on, though. I move back to the target range and fire off arrow after arrow, getting used to the new bow. In no time, I'm hitting the bull's-eye. I move back to the dummy at the opposite end of the gym. I quickly knock an arrow and let it fly. This time I hit the dummy right in the heart. Immediately, I send another arrow through a rope that's holding up a punching bag for boxing. Without pausing, I shoulder-roll forward and come to rest on one knee. I aim high. My third arrow hits the light swinging high above from the ceiling, sending a shower of sparks raining down that I think added a nice touch.

I turn around to face the Gamemakers and see that while some of them are nodding in approval, the vast majority are more interested in a roasted pig that is being set on the buffet table. Anger boils my blood. The injustice of it all. I'm being upstaged by a dead pig.

Without thinking, I rip an arrow from my quiver and string it. I aim and then send the arrow flying at the Gamemakers. Shouts and exclamations form a chaotic sound as they trip over themselves for cover. One man falls into the punch bowl. Others stare at me in shock.

I hit my target. The apple that was once in the pig's mouth is now pinned to the wall.

I hold all their gazes evenly before a smile graces my features, and I bow theatrically. "Thank you," I say. "For your consideration."

I drop the bow and arrows, and they fall to the floor with a clatter at my feet. I turn on my heel and leave without being dismissed.

I stomp my way to the elevator and when the doors open I punch the button to take me to my floor. The elevator shoots up and that's when the first few tears begin to leak from my eyes. By the time the doors open again, I'm running toward my room, ignoring the voices calling after me. I slam my door and immediately lock it before collapsing onto my bed.

Then I really begin to cry.

What have I done? Stupid, stupid, stupid! I'm done. I'm past the point of no return. There's no more hope for me.

What had I been thinking? Shooting at the Gamemakers?

I wonder what will happen to me. Will they execute me? Will they make me an Avox? Cut my tongue so that I can't speak and make me wait on the district tributes?

What about my family? What about Prim and my mother? What could happen to them because of my impulsive actions? Would they kill them? They wouldn't, would they?

How could I have been so stupid?

It was just that damn pig. They were more interested in a dead pig than a girl who is fighting for her life. Where was the morality in that?

I hear Haymitch and Effie knocking on my door, but I yell at them to go away and eventually they do. However, a few minutes later, I hear my door open. I immediately spin around, thinking that it's the Peacekeepers to come take me away, only to see Peeta standing in the doorframe.

"Go away," I tell him and bury my face back in my pillow.

I feel the bed sink beside me, and roll away from him, clutching a pillow to my chest. "Go away, damn it!" I yell, but Peeta doesn't move.

Instead, he hauls me into his arms, despite my protests, and holds me. I fight him for a moment, but he holds me tightly to his chest, and eventually I give up and let myself cry. My tears stain his shirt, but he doesn't seem to care. He just holds me, not saying a word.

Okay, now everybody go, "Awwww..." Peeta, you're such a sweetie.

And how do you guys like Peeta vs. Cato, Round 2? Peeta whooped Cato's ass, and it was awesome! I cannot read that scene without grinning like an idiot. And for those of you who don't really know much about weight lifting, your squat weight is your heaviest weight. So for Peeta to bench press what Cato squats . . . that's basically saying, "You're such a wuss. Check these guns out." And in reality, it's not that far of a stretch to think that Peeta would to be able to lift somewhere in the 300 lbs range. I know guys that could lift that much at 16. Not many, but a few.

Besides . . . Peeta showing off how strong he is happens to be extremely sexy . . . And I mean, you got to think about all those 100 lbs. bags of flour he's been tossing around like nothing . . .

Anywho, enough of that. Aren't PK just cute, though? And Peeta has a plan . . . I wonder what that could be? The question, my dears, is does he tell her? And if he doesn't, does he explain, at least a little? Hmmmm...

Review please? If you do, you all get a cookie, frosted by one Peeta Mellark . . .

Lots of love,

AC