The Undersee property spanned thirty-odd acres at the southeastern border of Twelve Glades.

It was not unusual for the elder, founding families to own expansive properties. Stakes on these lands dated back well over a century—to when prospectors first found the rich coal veins in the neighboring hills. Most people—the residents themselves included—considered their town small, namely because the central hubs of commerce, industry, education, transportation and public assembly, all orbited the town square, with its singular avenue, and LabCorp's campus.

These landmarks combined were less than ten miles' worth of the town's area. But, when the cumulative land of these older families and the lab's residential neighborhood factored in, Twelve Glades deceptively rounded out at over fifty square miles.

The remoteness of families like the Undersees had been the reason virologists stipulated the epidemic spared them. Just about every child who'd gotten sick, and eventually died, had resided in Victor's Promenade - CapCorp's residential community.

The Mellarks had been the only exception. To protect them, their parents had the siblings confined to their own property limits, miles from the square and surrounding community, the day the mayor announced the suspension of classes, due to the increasing number of ill children. The very day Flax manifested symptoms, all three were transported via an especially equipped ambulance to the hospital, also miles secluded from the community's central hub and a couple miles recessed from the main thoroughfare.

The CDC was not taking any chances of the contagion spreading to town and the outskirt homes.

So, Madge Undersee—the town Mayor's only child—was one of Twelve Glades's tragically small group of children who'd been around before and after the fever ran its course—the only immune child left in town who'd yet to age out of secondary school. She was a sophomore, like Peeta and Katniss.

And she was the most classically beautiful girl in school. In their town. Arguably, for the next three counties over.

Her skin was porcelain: miraculously, never marred by adolescent acne. Glacial, doe eyes sat in perfect proportion to a delicate, elfin nose, flushed high cheekbones, and naturally pouting rose lips. She preferred to wear her amber hair pinned into a messy bun at school. The style matched her mien: practical, intelligent, reserved. But there were always those irrepressible, transient waves, falling to frame her heart-shaped face.

Nothing corralled those waves today.

Two large white daisies, secured by tiny barrettes at either temple, kept the hair from falling into her eyes. Otherwise, it cascaded loose down her back, reaching well past her waist.

Objectively, Peeta should have felt some level of reluctance, maybe even attrition, at this exhaustive a scrutiny of his brother's girlfriend.

Nothing of the sort came.

Madge was unaware… safe. There was no chance his lingering eyes would trigger shivers at the back of her mind. Her subconscious would not spike at his ghosted metaphysical presence.

Yes.

Safe. Comfortable.

Polar opposite of the girl scarce inches to her left in the middle row of his father's GL550.

Just a fleeting thought of her , and his eyes careened fleetingly, autonomous.

Quickly, he marshaled the traitorous organs back on Madge's head.

Eyes on Madge. Good, safe Madge.

They'd been in the car half an hour, reached the halfway mark of their journey, and he'd spent every second fighting the urge to gawk at Katniss.

He'd tried to think of something else: lose himself in the music his phone fed through the earbuds, studiously classify the different shades of greenery that dashed past, count the light poles, the grazing cattle, the infrequent farmsteads. But, inexorably, his thoughts returned to the events of the past Thursday night and the few encounters he and Katniss had had since.

Every moment until she'd gotten in the car today played in loops in his mind, twisting his insides with a thrilling kind of anxiety…

After Rye had managed to mind-screwed Katniss into pairing off with Peeta for the carnival on the trip back from Dalton's, she'd clammed up. But the silence had been anything but empty.

True silence had become an alien concept to him years before. If anything, the faint background noise of foreign neural activity had become a comforting companion through the years.

But the violent blasts of confused half-thoughts, tangled with wary apprehension Katniss put out was anything but comforting. It had blanketed the fringes of his mind in a harsh, pulsing static that made him want to tear at his hair and scream.

Never had the need to build bastions against another's thoughts been so pressing, and the task had demanded humongous focus.

He'd tried. God knew he'd tried, struggled to purge the influx of everything Katniss from his mind, even though she'd beenright there . But he couldn't. He hadn't been strong enough.

He'd had no choice but to close himself off from her completely.

It had not gone unnoticed. Katniss's confusion and embarrassment—a relentless assail, even as he hustled to erect stronger barriers—had let him know just how severely she had misinterpreted his distance.

She had no idea, the effect she had.

The one bright spot to the night had been their father's having already reached home by the time they'd arrived from their groceries run. He'd ribbed Rye for leaving the oven going while no one was home to tend to it.

Even distracted with untangling Katniss's consciousness from his own, Peeta had made out something about Rye destroying the house and premature white hairs.

Thankfully, his family's interaction had served to divert Katniss's train of thought. Humor and curiosity had dominated for several blissful minutes, as she'd assimilated their dynamic and puzzled how a man with a completely shaven head had any notion of encroaching grays. Her brow had furrowed, eyes traveling over their father's notably reddish blonde eyebrows and goatee, the only visible hair the man still had.

If only that respite could have lasted.

The evening's tailspin had begun with Flax re-introducing Katniss to their father, adding a quick synopsis of the night's events. His father had responded by welcoming her with literal open arms, crushing her in a bear hug and fretting over her ordeal. The gesture had been innocent, warm even, his dad oblivious in his concern.

Outwardly, she'd only stiffened, eyes growing round, large.

Inwardly, the reaction had been devastating.

Shock, surprise, embarrassment, alarm, familiarity, confusion, defensiveness, warmth, hostility, resentment, and longing, had crested and swept in a split second. All-consuming. Stifling. Smothering.

Before thought could compel action, Peeta had found himself taking the stairs two at a time, muttering something about cleaning up for dinner. He'd barely made it to the hallway bathroom, before slumping over the bowl, grateful to have kept enough presence of mind to hold his head as low as possible, hoping the thick porcelain would insulate the retching sounds from the audience just down the stairs.

After he'd taken a few moments to recompose, and swish some mouthwash, he'd willed himself downstairs, dreading the thought of forcing down dinner after that .

A relieved breath had left him when he'd found everyone already settled at the kitchen table, engaged in small talk as mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans made their round.

At that point, Katniss's aura had been subdued, only an excited sort of awe had wafted his way as her eyes travelled from the large bowls of potatoes, to the still simmering skillet of greens, to the three roast hens centered on the table. Her eyes had been bright, nostrils flaring, as she'd hungrily inhaled the aromas of sage, rosemary, garlic and myriad others spices circling the table. Mingled in there had also been gratitude, a sense of owing, anticipation, excitement, curiosity, and longing... again. These had all been mild—easy to handle when compared to her previous tangle of dark thoughts and caustic emotions. It had made Peeta wonder just how rare that was for her: the opportunity to eat a scratch-made, home-cooked meal.

That had tightened his chest, making him unsure whether to feel ecstatic that his family's hospitality brought these mellower sentiments out in her, or pity that he'd sat in school with her for years and she'd never projected anything close to those until that night. Something was intrinsically wrong with that.

He'd mulled that over as he'd angled his neck sharply, eliciting a satisfying 'snap'. He knew that wasn't good for the vertebrae, but it was cathartic and he'd immediately felt the tension draining, slackening his shoulders. Far more calm then a few minutes before, he'd made his way over to his usual seat, next to Flax, facing Rye. He hadn't been hungry at all, but figured he'd needed to make a show of taking a few bites, keeping up the pretense that Katniss's proximity wasn't tilting his universe on its axis.

There his mistake had lain. That would later proof the catalyst to the night's undoing: the softening of his heart, the lowering of his defenses, his complacency.

More at ease, he'd sat and served himself a fraction of what he usually ate. Then, he'd retreated inwardly with the ease years of practiced control afforded. The dinnertime happenings and chatter had faded into peripheral buzzing to allow all focus to center on slowing his pulse and navigating the infinite passageways of his id. Muscle memory had taken hold, guiding his body through the rote of cutting, lifting the fork, chewing, swallowing, bringing the water glass to his lips.

Dr. Everdeen had shown him the footage of this phenomena, taken during one of their calming exercises sessions years before. The doctor had asked him to find a peaceful place deep inside, and stay there, shut everything out until it was nothing but the faint swoosh of a breeze through an almost closed window.

On the video, Peeta had been playing HALO, his fingers moving dexterously over the control, eyes open and focused on the screen, shifting every so often with the imagery. But he hadn't been there at all, he'd remembered. He'd been in the quiet place.

He'd always wondered if anyone watching him when he did this could see his eyes dull; if they noticed how wooden and mechanical his gestures grew. It'd definitely disturbed him when he'd seen the video.

But, there, in the quiet place, he'd always felt in control. There, he was the architect. His thoughts, his masterpiece. Each sweep of the metaphorical brush made the piece better, the colors richer, the textures keener. All focus was on the construct, each layer a bastion, thicker. Stronger.

S-s-snap!

He'd stopped breathing. For a torturous, eternity-spanning fraction of a second, his chest had tightened, ice blazing through his veins—freezing, scalding. His motor function had faltered, sending his potatoes-laden fork plummeting toward the table. It had landed with a dull thunk. His manic eyes had turned on Katniss.

Her essence had breached his inner being!

That wasn't possible! It'd never even crossed Peeta's mind, the thought someone could prance through to his mental inner-sanctum like that. He'd spent nearly half his life specifically preventing that.

And it hadn't even been intentional—not an attack.

A moan. She'd moaned. The innocuous sound of a throat-rumbling, pleasured exhalation had managed to breach every rampart he'd painstakingly erected to the very core of him.

And it had not stopped at that.

She was a force of nature, oblivious of the devastation left in her wake.

Most people experienced a minute emotional spike to things they enjoyed. When he'd first started registering bio-electric shifts, before he'd built blocks, these had been common for him. But, Jesus, in that moment… Peeta had felt everything . Every force-shared sensory stimulus cleaved skin, clean through to each nerve ending.

He'd known the moment her glands triggered, flooding her system with endorphins. Synapses detonated like fireworks, the resulting euphoria so intense, they might as well have been ...

"I can't—!"

He'd catapulted to his feet, immediately moving for the arched entryway, his chair screeching in protest to the violent, jerking motion.

The noise jolted Kaniss and her eyes had turned on him, but there was no way he'd stop to acknowledge it. He was almost to the landing when he'd thrown over his shoulder as means of apology, "I don't feel well. I'm skipping dinner. I'll be upstairs…"

He'd lost the shirt midway up the stairs, his shoes went flying the minute he crossed the threshold to his room. He'd stepped out of his jeans just as the bathroom door slammed behind him. He hadn't cared whether his boxer briefs made it into the hamper as he'd barreled into the shower, just about ripping the curtain from its rod with the violence of his tug.

Only one thing had mattered in that moment: the near-freezing water numbing his hyper-heated skin, cooling his molten blood, slowing his rocketing pulse… cleansing everything Katniss from his mind.

He'd sequestered himself in his room the rest of the night, feeling every inch a coward. But he hadn't been capable of facing her— not until he was sure she'd never breech him like that again.

He wasn't strong enough.

When he'd sensed things winding down on the first floor, Peeta began sneaking peeks through the closed blinds of his window, which offered a view of the front lawn and the part of the driveway not immediately connected to the garage. Rye's bedroom had the vantage over the garage, but he could see the driver's side of the car they all shared clearly enough.

Apparently, his father had asked Rye to drive Katniss home, or the bastard had volunteered. Likely the latter.

Somewhere around eight, he'd watched his older brother walk Katniss out.

The prick had to have known— had to —that he'd been looking. What other reason could he have had to walk so close, surreptitiously bringing a hand to rest on her lower back, drawing unassuming circles there?

Peeta had wanted so much in that instant to make it so that hand never knew sensation again. Hypothetically, it should've been within the realm of his ability, seeking out that little specialized cluster of neurons, the system of relays, and shorting it out.

But Katniss had to get home safely. Partially lobotomizing the person charged with that responsibility had ultimately proven counterproductive.

So, he'd waited, stewing in his dark room, until he'd seen the car pull back into their driveway close to an hour later. He'd made his way into his brother's room through their shared bathroom. He'd waited behind the slightly cracked door, listening as the deliberate, heavy gait had come closer.

When Rye had reached his hand in to turn the light on, forcing the door fully open, Peeta'd made his move, aiming a perfect punch at his jaw.

The hit never landed. Using the momentum of the blow, Rye had twisted Peeta's arm painfully, wedging his broad shoulder into Peeta's sternum, and flipping him clean and hard onto the Brazilian Koa floor.

"Really, stupid?" Rye had bent over him as he'd struggled to fill his lungs with the air the impact had forced out. "Does she really have you so worked up you forgot we can all sense each other ? You're not biologically capable of sneaking up on me, asslick."

Then Rye had snickered contemptuously, serving to further fuel Peeta's rage. In a smooth motion, his hands had wrapped around both his brother's ankles and, using the leverage to wrap his legs around Rye's thick neck, he'd twisted to bring the massive teenager down.

Rye had hit the floor back-first, just as hard as Peeta had, but he'd immediately started guffawing. Of course he'd laughed. The sociopath knew exactly what would make Peeta's blood boil.

He'd been on him in the blink of an eye, landing hit after solid hit to the older boy's torso, ignoring the pain that had exploded in his knuckles with each impact. Hitting Rye always felt like pummeling a slab of frozen meat.

The bastard had kept laughing through the assault, not bothering to deflect the blows.

An incalculable amount of time later, the barrage had begun to take its toll on Peeta. Winded, he'd aimed one last hit at his brother's nose to end it. That one Rye had caught in his beefy mitt of a hand, shoving back hard enough that Peeta had lost his balance and landed hard on his butt at his brother's feet, the drawer banks of Rye's desk digging uncomfortably into his back.

"Not the face, prick. We have the carnival thing this weekend," Rye had said calmly, propping himself on his elbows to stare Peeta down. "Is it all out of your system, precious?"

Peeta had responded with a vulgar gesture.

Rye had blown him a kiss.

"You were touching her."

"So you caught that, huh?"

For the thousandth time that night, Rye had rolled his eyes. "It fell on me, the responsibility of putting on a good show for your benefit—" He'd smiled.

"And it was a personal social experiment. I was curious how she'd react when she noticed. She didn't though. Notice, I mean. Pretty sure she'd have tried slapping the pretty out of me if she had. We don't all get off as easy as Dad."

At Peeta's narrowed eyes, he'd shrugged, adding, "You're so arrogant, you know. Thinking I can't notice this crap because I'm not like you."

Effortlessly hoisting himself to his feet, Rye had grabbed the neckline of his polo shirt to pull over his head. "If it makes you feel any better, she was too zoned out to notice much of anything on the drive to her place. Didn't even speak. Don't think she's much into human interaction… sucks for you ."

When the shirt had yanked free, he'd flung it onto a pile of laundry in the corner of the room, his jeans immediately following.

"Now get out of my room."

He'd kicked Peeta's outstretched legs out of the way to get to their bathroom. "Oh, and you're welcome, by the way."

Rye hadn't bothered closing the door before stripping the boxer briefs off and dumping them in the hamper, as he got in the shower. Modesty was moot in a male-insular house.

"What exactly should I thank you for? Humiliating me ? Humiliating her ? Making a difficult, confusing process even worse by manipulating her into going out with someone she barely knows and doesn't particularly like ? Thank you, big brother. Thank you, for once again proving what a massive douchebag you are."

Rye had paused the shower stream a moment to lean his torso through the curtain, hair dripping water all over the rug. "Who says she doesn't like you?"

At that, Peeta had snorted, bringing his hands up to rub over his face. "God, I wish just once you idiots had access to what I do."

"I can't very well speak to what you have access to, peon," Rye had mocked, swiping his dripping bangs off his forehead. "But I don't trust for crap your interpretation of whatever you glean off her."

The shower had started up again. And after a few minutes of aggravating silence, Peeta's curiosity had gotten the better of him. "How do you figure?"

"Dr. E. always emphasized how important it was that you understood your own agency, your own emotions, your own psyche—kept it locked away, safe somewhere, inaccessible—so it could never get twisted up with those of the people around you, yes?"

Peeta's head had inclined further to indicate he was following, before he'd realized his brother couldn't see him in the shower. "Right."

"Where it comes to her, that flies out the window. You let your own insecurity, your hang-ups, your emotions, corrupt your read on her. And since you're too 'noble'—" this he'd said in a mocking lilt "—to actually dig in her mind and find the source of that bubble of darkness she swathes herself in, your take on whatever you sense from her is biased."

"I'm not violating her privacy any more than I already have, Rye."

"Then you can't trust whatever it is you skim on the surface. You're flying as blind as the rest of us." Rye had paused a moment as if contemplating. "Actually, you're flying blinder. Flax and I learned to read cues chicks drop the old fashioned way, tracking subtle changes in body language or shifts in the cadence of their voice during conversation. Your ability spoiled you; let you read people based on their ambient thought patterns. You lack the most fundamental ability to tell what Katniss Everdeen really wants."

"What does she really want?" Peeta'd hated the eager edge to his voice.

"She's actually not that much of a puzzle. Her mind is keen, but her reactions are compulsive over rational. Her focus is on the tree, not the forest. Right now, her priority is understanding what's happening to her. Her energies are centered on that. Can't really blame her. She's kind of a freak, even by our bizarre standards. Then there's a lot of unresolved hurt and anger, confusion about her father. He must've been very important to her. Lord knows Doc E was salvation to us, so can't really blame her there. There's likely some resentment there, too. And guilt for resenting him. It's complicated. I doubt there's much room to spare thoughts on her social life, nor has there been in quite some years. But, if you want a take on that? She sure as hell doesn't want to go anywhere with me . It had never occurred to her that she'd want to go to the school carnival, but she's intrigued by the idea of going now that the prospect's out there, curious—" he'd hedged off thoughtfully.

Rye had purposely been dragging out his explanation to be aggravating. Peeta'd been ready to murder him.

"And…!"

"And—" Rye had started up again, with a sideways smirk. "—I don't know in detail what she feels about you, but it's not dislike. She would've outright refused to go out with you if that was the case. She's not shy about voicing opinions. And, yeah, she could've only agreed because I put her on the spot and she didn't want to hurt your feelings. But, would your feelings matter to her if she disliked you? Nah. I think you're on par with this carnival trip. Wanting it never crossed her mind, but now that the opportunity has presented… she's intrigued. That's you, pricklick."

Peeta had let his head fall back into the drawer bank of the desk, contemplating that. It'd always felt like a perversity of nature when Rye made sense. It'd made his skin crawl.

"Besides, even overwhelmed by everything life threw at her tonight, she still managed to check you out pretty blatantly downstairs. That proves she's a normal teen girl somewhere in there. Maybe it never occurred to her before: seeing you as anything other than the little fat kid she used to eat worms with in pre-school. But she definitely wasn't seeing you in that light tonight. I think you have a decent shot."

The water had stopped then, and Rye had stepped out onto the mat, wiping his hair with the towel, uncaring that what made him male hung low, slightly left, and less than a yard from his little brother's face.

A reflexive action, Peeta's disgusted attention had drawn towards the top corner of the doorframe.

"Jealous."

"Hardly."

Rye'd snorted and made his way toward his dresser, flinging the wet towel over Peeta's head as he'd passed.

"I think Katniss would be impressed... lack of benchmark for comparison notwithstanding."

Peeta had scoffed, too miffed to be baited. "As you've so poignantly explained, she'd be completely indifferent or mortified… likely disgusted. She's been so lost in her own head that I doubt she's given much thought to her sexuality. She definitely wouldn't spare a second on yours. She'd likely also subconsciously electrocute it on instinct. That would be in keeping with her trend the last few years."

"She seemed to give your sexuality some consideration downstairs. Did she give you a jolt? Nah. I think that was all you, precious."

To hide the heat rising to his cheeks, Peeta had thrown the damp towel back at the side of his brother's face. "You're a pig, man. For Christ's sake, put some clothes on!"

It had connected, making Rye snicker as he'd scoured his dresser for a pair of sweats. His eyebrow had quirked pointedly at his brother as he'd pulled them on. "Don't think this is for your benefit. It drags and pinches if I fall asleep nude. Hashtag: long schlong problems."

"Jesus, what makes you think anyone wants to know that?" Peeta had snorted, fighting a smirk.

Rye'd continued chuckling as he'd plopped himself on the bed, scowling when it'd dawned that Peeta had ignored his command to leave his room and instead sprawled, cross-legged, in the same spot he'd landed after their scuffle.

"Leave if learning the intricacies of my superior endowment offends you," he'd said, snidely. Then, he'd grown inexplicably quiet, still glaring at Peeta for a few long breaths before adding in a much softer voice, "You'd know if I was interested in her, I'd tell you."

"Right. Because you've never targeted girls you knew I was into."

"Spare me. You couldn't have cared less about those other girls—"

When Peeta had tried to object, he'd cut him off.

"Don't. It doesn't matter. This is Katniss. I wouldn't—" Rye'd run a hand through his damp hair. "I have no plans to stop tormenting you. That's a fringe benefit of being born forty weeks ahead of you. And I like Katniss. She's fun, in a gloomy, naive sort of way. I'm not going to stop using her to screw with you. But... you need to know…

"I'm not competing here."

Realizing they were sharing some bizarre brotherly moment, Peeta had remained silent, nodding softly.

Rye had nodded once too, before interlocking his fingers behind his head, slumping further into his headboard and closing his eyes. They'd sat in companionable silence for a few minutes until…

"Okay, we need to talk about what my cooking did for this girl. Was it just my imagination, or did the rosemary garlic chicken get her o—?"

"Shut up, Rye!"

His older brother's muffled laughter had trailed behind Peeta long after both their doors had slammed.

At school Friday morning, Peeta's mind had kept running over the parts of his and Rye's talk that weren't horribly lude. It had bolstered his confidence some. He'd needed all the bolstering he could get. Facing Katniss—with everything that had transpired the previous night hanging over them—was going to be as hard as it was inevitable.

They had homeroom, third, and sixth period together. Avoiding her hadn't been possible. Not that he'd wanted to avoid her, really. As much as her wayward thoughts and emotions affected him, he'd still felt a drawn to her. And he'd mastered keeping her out of his mind in a classroom setting years ago. He'd just needed to figure out how to interact with her now, using words. He hadn't been optimistic.

Katniss had already been in class when he'd arrived. He'd always found it odd that he drove to school while she walked, but she'd always managed to beat him to homeroom.

She'd been sitting in her regular seat, off in the furthest corner of the room from the door, hunched over a paperback, legs folded under her, with one foot hanging off the edge of her seat and bouncing rhythmically. She hadn't looked up when he'd found his own seat. There'd been no evidence of her tampering with the charge in the room, something he'd come to use as a gauge for her moods. So, he'd busied himself with ignoring the anthem and morning announcements to finish the essay he had due for sixth period Creative Writing. The time passed quickly. He'd pretended he hadn't noticed her fly by when the bell rung, busying himself with getting his notebook in his bag.

First and second periods had been a blur, his anxiety over seeing Katniss again making concentration impossible.

She'd already been in third period when he'd arrived, as well. She'd been tapping her pen on her open textbook, elbow propped on the table, hand cradling her cheek as she'd stared out the window. His view of her in that class was better and he'd been able to appraise her in more detail.

She'd worn a gray and black plaid cotton shirt dress over thick, charcoal tights, finished off with Doc Martens. Her face had been angled so that it'd been impossible to see, but he'd imagined the gray of her eyes smoldering against those colors and the soft light from the window.

His musing had been derailed when Miss Atala begun lecturing, effectively diverting his attention away, forcing him to dig into his bag for his Algebra textbook and notepad.

Three minutes into taking notes, a balled up piece of paper had thumped softly against his chest to land on the notebook.

His eyes had drifted up to meet Katniss's from across the room. He couldn't read her. He'd had years of practice perfecting his barriers at that distance, in those sorroundings. Without folding back blinders, her thoughts were barely noticeable. But there had been something to the intensity of her stare. Maybe there had been something to what Rye had said about learning to read body cues...

He'd unfolded the paper under his desk and read.

Look at your phone.

He'd arched an eyebrow at her briefly, noticing her own brows had pinched into a scowl as he'd fumbled in his pocket for his phone. There'd been a text from an unrecognized number.

Borrowed Mom's phone till replacement comes in a few days. Rye gave me all your phone#s for this weekend. Can you tell what I'm thinking right now? Can we communicate with our thoughts?

He'd glanced back at her, offering a subtle shake of his head. He'd noted her frown deepen before her face turned down to the phone she'd held in her lap. He'd attempted to camouflage their exchange by turning halfway back toward the board, his periphery still on his phone. She sat tucked into a corner with four other seats to shield her activity. But he was at the front of his row. He'd had to get creative to keep from getting caught texting during class.

Her reply had come after a few seconds.

Why not?

He'd shifted an arm under his text book, propping it to shield his other hand as he'd typed.

You can't interpret neural energy fields. I can hear you, but you can't hear me. The connection's one-sided , he'd typed, hit send, then had been looking back up at the board.

Her next text had come after a few seconds.

But I can feelyou.

Peeta hadn't known why reading that made his stomach tighten and warm. But, when he'd looked back at her, she had already been typing away. His phone had vibrated just as she'd lifted her eyes back to his, a desperate sort of intensity clouding them.

I can feel you. You feel different from everything. From everyone. I feel everyone. And I feel everything. Objects. Air. Everything pulses. Shivers. Everything feels sharper. Bright. Why? What is this ? What's happening to me?

His eyes had snapped back on her and, for once, without the aid of tracing her thought patterns, he'd recognized what lay swirling in her eyes.

She had been terrified.

He'd never wanted more to hold her, whisper that everything would be okay. They'd figure it out. She wasn't alone. He was there to help.

But, sitting there, captured in the vulnerability of her open stare, he hadn't had it in him to be anything but honest. It was the least she had deserved after what he'd done to her for years.

He'd tighten his lips into a hard line and gently shaken his head.

And, he'd watched her scowl deepen, shoulders slumping as if no longer able to hold the nothing-weight of her small frame. She'd turned away from him with a sigh so deep, he'd heard it where he sat.

And, even though no other texts came, he'd read the message clearly.

I'm alone then.

He'd hoped to catch up to her at lunch, maybe talk things out, try to offer some kind of comfort.

An unavoidable part of Peeta's daily routine included a stop at his locker before heading to lunch, since his fourth period was well across the building and on the second floor, he'd never make it on time if he stopped at his locker after. Knowing this, Rye always fetched him a tray of whatever he thought was good that day from the line. It was practical, since Rye made it a point whatever he took third period every year was easy distance to food. In two years of high school, Peeta had yet to pick his own school meal. But if anyone had to decide on his diet, he'd want it to be Rye. His brother was a prick, but his palate was impeccable.

He'd looked around the already bustling cafeteria the moment he'd walked in, seeking out Katniss, hoping to catch her in the lunch line or on her way to find a table. Tribute High School didn't have a huge student body. All grades shared a single twelve-to-one lunch period, but the cafeteria was massive. Seating was never at a premium. There were also several picnic tables lining the promenade just outside the lunchroom for those who found the indoor accommodations stifling.

Katniss liked to eat outside when the weather permitted, he'd known. The back of the school backed into forested land. Her location of choice was the table furthest from the building, shrouded by the overhanging branches of a willow that sprawled just outside the perimeter fence. He knew that was creepy, his knowing her preferences so intimately, but it wasn't as if anyone else knew he'd kept track of this stuff. He was certainly never telling her.

When he hadn't seen her in the dining area, he'd taken off for the doors leading outside. The weather had been overcast, but the rain was holding off, so there'd been enough kids on the promenade that it wouldn't be too obvious he'd been out there looking for her. Never mind that he and his brothers' usual table was inside, close to both the entry doors and the beginning of the lunch line: a prime and coveted location.

Peeta had stopped short, just as the promenade doors had closed behind him, finding his brothers at the large round table nearest the entryway, the one that sat eight. Flax had been sitting on the table, legs propped up on the wooden bench below, roughhousing and laughing with some of the Varsity wrestling guys. Rye was sitting near, absently stabbing at a huge salad with his fork as he'd leaned over to speak with two girls to his left. Both girls had been giggling stupidly at whatever he'd said.

It had beem Flax who had interrupted his conversation when Peeta had walked up confused. His oldest brother had fist pumped and shoulder hugged his teammates goodbye, promising to catch up to them later, before turning a cryptic smile on him.

"Thought you'd want a change of scenery today," Flax had offered, jerking his head casually behind him and to the left. Peeta followed the gesture to where Katniss sat at the small, four seater wooden picnic table under the willow. But she wasn't alone.

"You made Madge talk to her?" Peeta had tried to keep his volume to a harsh whisper, but he'd still garnered the sharp, interested stares of Rye's lunch guests.

"Hey, show's over, lovelies. I'm sure you can find others whose day would brighten at your presence." Rye had gifted them a cavalier smile, snapping his fingers in front of their faces.

The girls had huffed in mock offense, but quickly picked up their trays to shuffle for the door. One had smacked Rye playfully on the shoulder as she'd left, the other had kissed his cheek when he'd tipped it at her. They'd both giggled as they were walking off. Rye had watched them go.

"No one makes Madge Undersee do anything she's not predisposed to do, Peeta. You know that," Flax had whispered just as sharply, through an infuriatingly bright, insincere smile, as he'd pulled Peeta down to the bench with a hand on his shoulder. To any onlookers, the gesture likely would have appeared playful, brotherly. In reality, he'd stimulated the suprascapular nerve at the base of Peeta's neck and it'd hurt like a bitch.

Peeta had fought the urge to rub at the spot once Flax had lifted his hand. Rye had shoved a plate at him—brown rice, stewed ground turkey, baked beans and a spinach salad he knew Rye had handcrafted himself—before explaining why they were eating outside. It had been Madge's idea to approach Katniss. They'd been friends before her father died. Madge missed her, and now that Katniss was forced to deal with who and what she was, Madge had volunteered to help her through it, reconnect, become the friends they once were. Katniss needed that.

"She's going to need someone she can relate to on some level," Rye had offered in an uncharacteristic show of acumen. "She's not like any of us. She's experiencing this on a completely different plane. Madge at least can relate on a psychological and physiological level. They're both girls. They may have kindred sensibilities. Madge could be really good for her."

Peeta had turned his attention back to where Katniss and Madge sat. Katniss's words toward Madge had looked hesitant, stilted, her shoulders tense. Even without tracing their thought threads, he'd been able to register her struggle in interacting with someone, who, although not new, had grown distant and foreign to her through the years.

"Is she telling her she knows what we are? What she is?"

"No," Flax had answered. "Lunch period's just an hour, doesn't really lend itself to existential conversation. She likely brought up safe topics, like expanding on our relationship, telling her how nice I told her it was to have dinner at our place last night... small talk. She'll maybe mention the carnival this weekend and how glad she is Katniss agreed to keep her company. Madge is good at gauging people, has impeccable tact. A born diplomat. She'll figure out the safest way to crack Katniss's shell."

"I had wanted to come out here and try to reach out to her," Peeta had confessed, turning back to scoop up another forkful of his lunch.

"And say what to her?" Rye had asked.

There was no edge or malice to question, but it had still rankled Peeta, inexplicably. He'd run a hand through his hair, tugging and reaching into his pocket for his phone. "I don't know," he'd huffed, flipping to his text history and shoving it in Rye's face. "I just need to make that better, somehow. She's going through hell, she's terrified and I'm sitting here, useless."

"We'll find a way to help her, Peet," Flax had offered with a conciliatory smile after Rye had handed Peeta's phone over. "Dr. Everdeen went out of his way to help us. We'll be to her what her father was to us, as best we can. We owe it to him. You'll see. From now on, she won't have to deal with this alone."

He'd felt it the moment he'd walked into sixth period. The spiking of fine hairs across the expanse of his exposed arms, at the nape of his neck. The charge had not been too harsh. Likely no one but he could've even noticed it. But it had been enough that anyone unfortunate enough to make contact with the metal frames of their desk would've regretted it.

His eyes had found her immediately and narrowed in confusion. She was affecting the charge in the room, yes, but the thought threads flowing from her weren't the caustic kind he'd grown accustomed to. They were… excited.

He'd reached his desk, slumping slowly into his seat, still focused on her. She had been looking at an iPad (he'd never noticed she owned one; certainly had never seen her use it before), and whatever she was seeing… she was excited about it. Peeta had sat fascinated by the oddity for a moment, then the bell had rung and he'd snapped out of it.

Katniss had quickly tucked the pad back into her bag and pulled out her notebook. The charge had not dissipated.

Peeta had waited until the teacher had begun his dissertation in earnest, hoping Katniss's diverted focus would weaken her sway enough that it'd stop.

But it hadn't stopped. He'd felt it. Her mind had been somewhere else, on some plane where emotion subconsciously triggered the electrical spectrum. He had been forced to make her stop. Electrons could only be accelerated so far before the voltage became dangerous.

With a deep breath, he unfurled the outermost layers of his mental fortifications, reading the thought threads wafting off her in braided rainbows of neural activity.

He'd just reached the surface of her wayward trails, when her head snapped up sharply, mercurial eyes blazing into his.

What the hell did you do?

He'd reeled with a gasp. She hadn't spoken, but her voice slashed through his mind with the force of a thunderclap. The charge in the room surged impossibly higher. Other students had started rubbing absently at extremities now, an instinctual response to the itch of electrical charge on their skin.

His mouth had opened and closed a few times in the couple seconds they sat there, her glaring and pulsing rage into the atmosphere, him staring dumbly, trying to figure out how she'd so easily projected that thought into his mind, hijacked the connection he'd subtly established.

Jesus, what was it about her that gave her the power to do that?

Before he'd fully gathered his thoughts, she'd pulled her mother's phone out and was typing fiercely. It took moments for his phone to vibrate in his jeans pocket.

What part of 'I can feel you' did you not understand? I feel everyone, but you especially. I can feel when you're near. I felt you staring at me during lunch. Yeah. O_O O_O O_O O_O O_O O_O O_O There. You like feeling eyes on you? And I definitely felt whatever that was you just did. It's because you messed with my head for so long, isn't it? You've screwed something up! Stay the hell out of my head, Peeta!

When he'd looked up from reading her message, her nostrils had been flaring, eyes murderous. Maybe that should have intimidated him, maybe should have made him feel attrition. Inexplicably, he'd felt just felt swell of indignation. Well, indignation and the overwhelming desire to prove a point. He'd typed back with matching vehemence, Run your hand over the leg of your desk. Don't touch the metal. Just skim your palm close to it.

He had stared straight on as she had hesitantly averted her eyes to glance at her phone, then snapped them back, nose wrinkling in confusion, but anger still gleaming in her stare. He had just gestured a shoulder in a 'go-ahead' motion.

She'd flexed the fingers of her hand warily, before reaching down to do as he'd commanded, eyes not leaving his until they flinched down toward her splayed palm.

Peeta had not had access to what it had felt like for her, seeing as he'd erected his defenses the moment she'd forced her thoughts into his mind. But, it was written clear as day across her face as she watched the blue rivulets of electricity dance across her skin, painting the flesh transparent where they passed. It had been clear in her eyes when she'd snapped them back to lock with his, as she'd snatched her hand up, cradling it protectively against her chest. The fear, the confusion, the desperation.

Please! Please help me , the smoky gray of her eyes seemed to have shouted. How do I stop it?

That plead in her stare had broken him and he'd wanted nothing more in that moment than to take it away, make it better, make it right. But he couldn't make this better. He couldn't make it right. There was right or wrong to this. This was who she was. And he had no idea where to start helping her cope with that. But he'd be damned if he was not going to try.

He'd typed furiously, heedless of how conspicuous he'd been to the teacher and other students.

Calm down. Take some deep breaths. Try to think of something calming. A place you feel safe.

After Katniss glanced briefly at the text, she'd nodded her head shakily at him, closing her eyes and taking a handful of shuttering breaths. It had appeared to work for a few seconds. Peeta had felt the voltage in the air diminishing, but then he'd felt the shift. It had swarmed around her like a dark cloud: the sadness, the anger, the helplessness. He'd known instantly what that meant. She'd inadvertently triggered thoughts of her father.

The charge in the room had skyrocketed, the overhead fluorescent lights had begun dimming and brightening sporadically, causing the teacher and all the students to gawk up, shocked.

Katniss's eyes had flown open, manic, terrified… focused on Peeta. Then they'd twitched down to the phone on her table and her fingers had been flying across its face.

It's not working! I need your help. I give you permission. Do what you have to do. Stop it! Help me stop it! PLEASE!

It hadn't even been a fraction of a second after he'd finished reading the message before he'd bridged their minds, intercepting neural streams, triggering others, redirecting the electrical impulses of her cerebral chemistry just...so.

The physical effect had been instantaneous, Katniss had visibly melted into her chair, eyes heavy-lidded and slightly unfocused. The accelerated electrons in the air had slowed, the charge had ebbed. The lights had stopped flickering and, after looking around at each other in confusion, the teacher had marshalled the class's attention back on the board to finish his lesson.

No one had been the wiser.

But Peeta hadn't been able to lose the guilt as he'd stared at Katniss the rest of the class. She'd kept her elbow on the desk, bracing her head as if it would roll off without the support. He'd known she'd been incapable of concentrating the rest of the period. It'd been a miracle she'd stayed awake, at all. He'd been a little overzealous with slowing her neural transmission frequencies.

For him, the line between inducing relaxation and lunging someone into a coma was thread thin. Control. This was why control and discipline were paramount.

Finally, the bell had rung and Peeta had busied himself with putting the notebook with the day's useless notes and his text book away. He could do the homework without the notes. He'd already read through that entire text book when Rye had taken the class last year. He'd committed the curriculum to memory. But, when he'd first started school, his parents had made it clear that doing classwork like all the other kids was important. Doing as was expected of all others would help him relate to his peers better, help forge normal social routines. If he emulated the social dynamic of others, assimilating to varying environments and situations would become second nature. His parents made sure he and his brothers took this to heart.

Peeta had developed mixed feelings about that doctrine as he'd aged. Yes, he'd been inclined to keep to his brothers' company as a toddler and young child. At that age, he didn't understand why, but he'd found comfort in simply knowing the three of them were alike. Before the fever, he'd been awkward with other children, but he'd managed well enough. After the epidemic, his father had made a point of taking them to as many places in both the U.S. and other nations as he could manage. He'd made sure they were in constant contact with all kinds of people. Peeta had been forced to adjust. As a result, over the years, it'd become rote to fit in with the masses. In high school, that meant classes, homework, sports, building superficial friendships and dating.

He'd been distracted with pulling his duffle from under his seat, the one with his wrestling uniform and shoes for practice that afternoon, so he hadn't noticed Katniss approach until he'd straightened. He'd shrugged both his duffle and messenger bag on his shoulder, flinching reflexively at finding her there.

Katniss had cringed slightly at his reaction.

"So…" she'd started hesitantly, a hand coming to rub the back of her neck. "That was… different."

Understatement of the century.

"Um, yeah—"

"Is it addictive?" she'd blurted suddenly.

"What?"

Katniss had frowned, shifting her weight on the balls of her booted feet. "Like… will I get hooked on it... on what you do, I mean? Am I already hooked on it? Will it tweak my brain like heroine or something?"

Peeta couldn't help a smile, just a little one, at her curiousity. "Heroine and just about every other narcotic is a synthetic catalyst, meant to alter normal brain chemistry. That's why they're addictive. Everything I do, your own brain does on its own under specific triggers. I just manipulate neural impulses to simulate those triggers. You can't get hooked on it."

Her shoulders had loosened noticeably when he'd explained, only to tense again when he'd added, "But, that doesn't mean you can't become dependent on it. You can come to use it as a crutch, an excuse not to learn control on your own."

She'd seemed to consider this, then nodded with resolve. "Okay. We need to set some ground rules. I don't want you in my head unless I explicitly ask for your help, or I'm so out of my mind that taking me out is your only option. And remember I can feel you, so I'll know if you get in there." She had paused, tilting her head pensively at him. "Why is that, anyway? Why can I feel you now if I couldn't before?"

Peeta had shrugged, all he'd had to offer. He had still been working to figure out how, out of hundreds of people whose minds he'd grazed, she was the first to be actively aware of the contact. And he'd also been struggling with why her awareness of him escalated so acutely after her own ability manifested.

"Also, Madge asked me to tell you—" she'd continued, breaking the awkward pause. She had avoided her eyes to the wall behind him. "This is so stupid,"—she'd huffed— "You know she's likely already told Flax. You're going to talk about it anyway. There's no point… But, anyway, she asked, so… I'm staying with Madge this weekend." Her eyes had flickered to him, then back to the wall, a deep inhalation. "I haven't been to a sleepover since… well, you know. She has nice clothes and stuff, says she can't wait to get her hands on my hair again."

She'd rolled her eyes, but he could see she'd been fighting back a smirk. "So, yeah. I'm not spending good money that can go towards a car on a stupid dress for one day, so she's lending me something and you're supposed to pick us up and drop us off at her place tomorrow."

Her eyes had finally settled back on his face and she'd frowned at Peeta's sideways grin. She'd sighed dramatically, angling her body toward the door. "So, yeah. I guess I'll see you soon…"

With a contemplative tip of his head, Peeta had responded, "See you soon, Katniss." Then he'd watched her walk away toward the door.

Three feet from breaching the threshold, she had turned back to face him, conflict drawing a line between her brows. "One more thing I need to know—"

A brow had quirked high on his face, curiosity piqued.

She'd locked eyes with him with forced bravado. "If I focus hard enough, concentrate really hard… can I force my thoughts into your mind? Can I make you hear me?"

Peeta's next breath had hitched at the unexpected and, honestly, intrusive question. He had no idea why Katniss could breach his mental barriers with the ease she could. And letting her know how vulnerable he was to her was just about the last thing he wanted to do. But, he'd spent years lying to her, if not directly than through omission. She deserved a truth from him, even if it was not the full truth. She hadn't asked how easily she could do it, after all. Only if the thing itself was possible.

"Yes", he'd answer on a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Then, as an afterthought, he'd pried, "Why would you ask that?"

Her eyes had dulled, withdrawn inwardly for an instant before brightening with a fierce intensity. "I need to know."

"Need to know what?"

"That when I'm screaming, and screaming, and screaming into the void in my head… there's actually a chance someone will notice."

"If she's so aware of you and that makes her uncomfortable… just redouble your efforts. Don't look at her, don't talk to her unless she seeks you out first. Don't give her any further reason to resent you for your abilities."

Peeta's palm had run ruggedly across his face in frustration at Flax's words as he'd sat alone in one of the middle seats of their father's SUV enroute to pick up the girls. "She's going to be inches away, in this car, for hours, man," he'd huffed, frustrated. "I can't make heads or tails of this… whatever this connection is we have, but proximity is not helpful . How am I supposed to pull this off?"

Petta had angrily punched the back of the passenger seat headrest. "This is your fault, stupid. I wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't schemed this whole set-up!"

Rye hadn't bothered looking up from his phone, where he'd been distracted, texting back and forth with Madge to make sure the girls would be ready by the time they made it to the Undersees. "Cry away, wuss. And blame me all you want for achieving in five minutes what you haven't had the balls to work out in a decade. No one put a gun to your head. You didn't want to come today? Your ass could've stayed home. Find another scapegoat for your social shortcomings."

A few moments later, they'd been pulling into the winding, oak lined path that served as a driveway up to the Undersee manor and Rye'd turned casually toward Flax, ignoring the backseat passenger entirely. "Madge says they're waiting in the foyer. Just pull up and they'll be right out."

Then, they'd been there, vehicle stalled on the rotunda driveway of the impressive home. Madge had been the first to emerge, stunning as ever, rushing to the side of the car as Flax lowered his window.

After a quick peck on the lips hello, she'd offered a little breathless, "All right, she's a little nervous and a little insecure about what she's wearing. Soooo—" Madge had elongated the single vowel for effect "—everyone has to be extra nice, okay?

"I'm speaking to you, Ryeland," she'd muttered with a pointed look at the Mellark middle child.

Rye had made a show of looking offended and smiling innocently, which came off as depraved, as he hadn't bothered masking the glint of debauchery in his eyes.

Madge had clucked her tongue and turned back to Flax, though it was obvious she'd been addressing all three. "I sent her off to the bathroom so she could settle down a bit… and pee. It is a long drive, after all. And port-a-potties are gross. We're going to try to limit visiting those to once today, if possible. We'll be out in a second. Behave—" She'd pointed a stern, delicate finger in Rye's direction as she'd backed away into the home.

"What does she think I'm going to do?"

"Be you , douchebag."

Rye's tongue had slid across his upper teeth as if considering. "Fair enough," he'd assented, with a shrug.

Then, next thing Peeta'd known, Rye had been on his feet, leaning half out the passenger side window, wolf-calling at the girls emerging from the home.

Katniss had crossed her arms high on her chest as she'd veritably stomped over to the idling car, frowning and glaring at Rye, who had continued waxing poetic about her unmatched beauty. She'd forced an angered facade, but the flush and slight upward curl to her lips betrayed her.

"You're so stupid," she'd grumbled, passing him and moving toward where Peeta held the door open for her. She'd avoided eye contact with a whispered "hey" and "thank you" as she'd settled into the back seat, next to Madge, whom Flax had assisted through the opposite door. Peeta had nodded dumbly in reply to her greeting, wordless, keeping his eyes low and away from her face as well. That had proven inane, as it'd only left her lower body for his gaze to settle on.

And settled they had.

The flared fringes of her skirt skimmed an enticing couple of inches above her knees, exposing the long stretch of her trim, cinnamon hued legs. He'd stared entranced as she'd gathered the flowing material to her front, stepping onto the elevated vehicle, then releasing it to cascade around her thighs once seated. Peeta's stare had lingered far longer than socially appropriate on the smooth patch of lower thigh the hitched material inadvertently exposed for a few seconds, before shaking his head gruffly and jumping in. He'd moved past the second row, to the solitary last row of seats in the vehicle.

He'd chanted every expletive he knew inwardly as the vehicle had lurched into motion, anxiety churning his stomach. He'd wanted to laugh and cry and hit something. Maybe Rye.

Jesus, it was going to be the longest drive of his life.

And that was just the start of the nightmare.