I rap my knuckles against the doorframe, more out of habit than necessity. Haymitch has an open door policy, at least where I'm concerned. He glances up from his desk, looking more haggard than usual, but when he sees me his eyes soften. "Sweetheart," he rasps. "Come on in."

If anyone else dared to call Katniss Everdeen sweetheart, I'd probably punch them. But Haymitch Abernathy is my late father's longtime friend, and the closest thing to a parent I have.

He's also, as principal of District Twelve Elementary School, my boss.

I slide into the chair across from him, shaking my head as he tilts his towards the desk drawer, an unspoken offer of a drink. Instead, I wait. Haymitch and I are long past small talk. With a smirk, he pushes a manilla folder across the desk. "New kid for your class," he says.

"What's the catch?" I ask. Mid-year transfers aren't uncommon, certainly not worth actually calling me into his office to talk about. I pick up the slim folder, weighing it thoughtfully. I teach first grade, so my student files are never very thick, but this one seems to have a few more pages than typical. Curious, I flip it open. Stapled to the first page is a small picture of the new student. He's cute. Most of the kids that filter in and out of my class are cute, six-year-olds usually are. But this little guy is cuter than average, an over-long mop of golden curls over pale blue eyes, chubby cheeks and a gap-toothed grin. "Max Van Allen," I read aloud.

"He comes with a bit of a reputation." Haymitch says. I raise an eyebrow, and he continues. "D-Two calls him a troublemaker."

I glance back at the wallet-sized picture. It's hard to believe the little cherub pictured could be a hellion. But flipping through the pages of incident reports gives a very different picture. Doesn't listen. Doesn't play well with other children. Disruptive. Then again, District Two has a reputation for being a somewhat stricter school, located as it is in the most affluent part of the state.

"You dragged me in here at lunch just to saddle me with a brat? Why don't you put him in Beetee's class? I'm pretty sure it's his turn."

"I got you out of playground supervision, Sweetheart," he growls, and I smirk because it's true, and he knows supervising the kids post-lunch, when they're antsy and hopped up on juice, is my least favourite activity. After a moment he shrugs. "Besides, you're a better fit for this one."

My smartass retort dies on my tongue as I skim little Max's contact information. Mother: deceased. "Oh," I say softly, understanding, and he nods.

"Happened last summer. Figured you'd remember how that felt, maybe understand the kid better than Beetee could."

I was a little older than Max when I lost my father, but I remember the pain and confusion as if it were yesterday. And I'm sure Haymitch remembers how sullen I was back then. How disruptive my sister Prim was. How long it took us to get over his loss.

Not that we ever did. Not fully anyway. And Haymitch knows that too. I sigh. "When does he start?"

"Monday."

o-o-o

Max turns out to be a charming, gregarious little fellow. He marches into my class his first day with a smile and a single sunshine-frosted cookie in a glassine envelope, 'for my new teacher'. He enthrals the school bus driver and the lunch lady too, effortlessly. And for the first few days it feels like District Two and Haymitch have exaggerated the potential for trouble.

But the bloom is off the rose quickly.

Though he can be sweet, he's clearly not accustomed to compromise. He's bossy and demanding, doesn't like to share, is quick to throw tantrums and lash out when he doesn't get his way. By the end of week two, the staff are throwing around words like 'spoiled' and 'menace'.

I try partnering him with different kids every day, trying to ease him into our routines, find a comfortable fit for him, but each choice is less and less successful. Soon enough, he's spending more time in time out than actually interacting with the other students. And as his behaviour deteriorates, the other kids stop wanting to play with him, which makes things worse. Max becomes progressively angrier, often brooding. Refuses to do his seatwork. Refuses to engage in the lessons. A few gentle notes home suggesting that Max is having trouble integrating come back with vague scrawled promises of talking to him. But if anything, the situation worsens. He becomes belligerent, seems to take a sadistic pleasure in pushing buttons - mine and the rest of the staff's. I'm forced to send him to Haymitch repeatedly.

"I don't know what to do with him," I admit to my mentor one lunch break over turkey sandwiches (for me) and scotch (for Haymitch). "He can be really sweet sometimes. But he's so angry, so mad at the world."

"Sound familiar, Sweetheart?" Haymitch laughs. He's right, of course. I could be describing myself fifteen years ago.

"What can I do?" I don't like to seem incompetent, but I'm truly at a loss. And I know Haymitch placed Max with me because he thinks I can help.

"Kid doesn't have a mother. Maybe he needs a mother figure in his life, at least for a few hours a day?"

I snort. "Haymitch, I'd be shitty at that. You know I don't want kids."

"I also know that's because you love them, and are too damned afraid of seeing them get hurt like you were." It's hard to argue with that. So I shrug. But I'm no closer to figuring out what to do with Max.

o-o-o

It's a Wednesday morning, just about a month after Max arrived, and I glance over at his desk. The other children are all happily colouring and cutting out drawings of clothing for our vocabulary lesson, and chatting among themselves. But Max is staring out the window. Instead of the angry face he's been wearing almost constantly, what I see now is a sad, lonely little boy. And my heart breaks for him.

So when lunchtime comes, I ask my classroom helper to walk the other children down to the lunch room.

But I keep Max behind.

He sits as his desk, head hanging, tearing a piece of paper into tiny scraps. "I'd like to talk with you, Max," I start. "Can you tell me what's going on?" He shrugs. "It seems like you're not very happy here," I start and his blue eyes snap up to mine.

"Are you going to send me away now?" He's wearing his typical defiant expression, but his bottom lip trembles. And though I've taught over a hundred kids in the four years I've been with District Twelve, there's something about this little guy in particular that tugs pretty hard at my heartstrings. Maybe it's because I see so much of myself in his tough exterior and tender heart.

"No Max, I'm your teacher and this is your classroom until you're ready to move up to second grade. You're going to stay here with me for the rest of the year." I hope I'm telling him the truth, I'm uncertain of the reason for his mid-year move, though I assume it has something to do with his mother's death. But I think what he needs, more than anything, is some stability. And if I can give him that, I will.

"But I'm a bad boy," he says.

"You're not bad," I tell him, but he's looking out the window again. "Max," I say gently, then wait until he turns to me. His soft blue eyes shimmer. "You're not a bad boy. Sometimes you do things without thinking carefully, but you're not bad. Okay?"

"Papa says I'm bad. That's why I'm here." The tears overflow and I instinctively open my arms to him. He clings tightly, crying on my shoulder.

"You're a good person, Max." My voice is a little rough and I have to speak around the lump in my throat. "You're a really special kid, and I like you a lot." At those words he pulls back a bit, utterly perplexed, and I wonder if no one has told him that they like him? How could that be?

But then I think back to my own childhood. When my father died I desperately needed an adult to tell me everything was going to be okay. And for the longest time, there was no one. My mother fell apart when she lost her husband, incapable of supporting her children emotionally. Until Haymitch stepped in, Prim and I were tetherless, angry and so very afraid. I can see in little Max a lot of the same fear and confusion. And I vow to help him.

o-o-o

After our talk, there are some improvements in Max's behaviour. Not a lot, and they're subtle, but I see them.

He looks to me more and more frequently for guidance, when he's struggling to get along with one of his peers. And because I'm keeping a close eye on him, I'm able to encourage him in a way that doesn't look like an intervention.

He comes to me for comfort too. I do what I can, but my hands are a little tied by the school board and by regulations and by the simple fact that with twenty-six children in my classroom my time is limited. But he gladly takes what little I offer, blossoming like a dandelion under a few words of praise.

All of which makes me angrier and angrier with his father, this man who tells his son that he's a 'bad boy', who clearly isn't offering the child what he needs, emotionally.

The day that the children draw family portraits, and Max's shows just a single, tiny figure in front of a large house, I know I have to do something more. The only thing I can think of is to meet with the asshole father, to try to reason with him in person. So I ask Effie, our secretary, to set something up.

o-o-o

Mr. Van Allen and his son are a study in the power of genetics.

Standing in my classroom doorway, they could be the same person, twenty-some years apart. Blond hair, fair skin, stocky builds. Both wear identical expressions of unease.

When Max notices me, his little face lights up, and he runs across the room to hug me. I ruffle his hair and grin, but then I glance at his father, who looks stunned. I turn my attention back to the important person in the room. "Hello Max," I say, and he beams at me. "Would you like to show your papa where your desk is?" It's an easy way to make the parent more comfortable, and to give the child a modicum of control over the situation. Most kids love it. Max scowls.

"He's not my papa," he grumbles, not even sparing the blond man a glance. "That's Peeta."

I glance up in confusion. The man shifting uncomfortably in the doorway is obviously related to little Max, they're virtual clones. "I'm Max's father," he confirms tightly, his neck and cheeks flooding with colour. He can barely make eye contact as he walks towards us. I wonder if he has a bad temper.

"Miss Everdeen," I say, reaching out to shake his hand, which is huge and clammy. "It's nice to meet you Mr. Van Allen."

"Oh, it's uh, Mellark," he says, and the flush deepens. "Peeta Mellark. Max has his late mother's name."

Oh.

I take an absolutely inappropriate glance at Max's father's left hand. Bare, not that the lack of a wedding band means anything. "I'm sorry," I tell him, confused. "I thought it said Van Allen in the record." Mr. Mellark nods.

"Max was living with his maternal grandparents until fairly recently. Their names are probably still in there."

Oh.

"Right," I murmur, and vow to kick Haymitch in the shin tomorrow morning. Jerk could have warned me. "Max," I say, turning my attention back to the moppet who is now holding my hand. "Will you show your father your desk?"

So not only is Max's dad an asshole, he's a deadbeat asshole.

But even as I think it, I can't reconcile that with the man standing in front of me, blue eyes wide and wary, shoulders hunched in defeat. He looks nearly as frightened as a kindergartener on the first day of school.

Letting Max show his papa - no, his father - his desk also allows me to observe them, watch their interactions. I've left a folder of Max's schoolwork on the desk, Mr. Mellark seems genuinely interested in Max's creations, smiling, offering praise. But Max shows him the papers mechanically, not engaging with the older man in anything other than a superficial manner. Hostile, even.

I'm completely bewildered.

"Max," I call gently when the silence has stretched between them too long. Two pairs of blue eyes swing to mine, shining with frustration. "I set up a new story at the music station for you." A huge smile stretches across his face, story time is his favourite and while audiobooks aren't as much fun as sitting on the carpet listening to a book read live, they're still pretty great.

While Max listens to his story, giant headphones perched on his golden head, I sit at my desk with his father. Before I can start, he speaks. "I know Max can be difficult, but underneath he's a really good kid, I promise you that." His face is earnest, almost begging me to see his son as worthy.

"I know," I say, confused. I wasn't expecting him to defend Max, and so vehemently. Startled blue eyes meet my own.

"You do?"

"Well yeah, of course."

Mr. Mellark's shoulders sag in relief. At my expression, he continues. "The staff in District Two, they completely demonized the poor kid, made it seem like he was incorrigible." He clears his throat.

"Is that why you switched schools?" It comes out a little more terse than I mean it to. But if this guy is accustomed to just running away from his problems I want to know, and I want to ensure he's not going to do that to Max again.

"Uh, no." Mr. Mellark won't meet my eyes, staring out the window in much the same way his son often does. "District Two is close to Max's grandparents's house, but I live in Victor's Village." It's a community not far from where I myself live in the Seam. "And now that he lives with me…" he trails off, shrugging.

It doesn't make any sense. I know Max's mother died over the summer, why did they have him start first grade at District Two if his father lives here? But it's not my place to debate their choices, only to ensure that Max is getting the support he needs.

"Max is having a lot of trouble adjusting," I say, switching tack. "He's generally unhappy, and he's not bonding with any of his classmates. I'm worried-" I cut off my sentence abruptly as Max comes running across the classroom.

"Miss Everdeen, guess what?" he says, nestling right up to me, and I can't help but grin. Away from the other kids, from the stress and confusion of the classroom, he really is a sweetie. Without conscious thought, I push his over-long curls out of his eyes as he animatedly tells me what Mouse is doing in the book so far. His gap-toothed grin is huge. After a quick accounting, he agrees to go back and listen to more of the story, and skips back across the classroom.

I'm still smiling when I turn back to his father, but my smile falters a little at the pained expression on his face. He's looking over at his son with such sadness, I'd almost call it longing. Only then do I realize that Max hadn't shared anything about the book with his father, hadn't even spared Mr. Mellark a glance as far as I can tell. Clearly, something is fundamentally shattered in the relationship between father and son, and that's far beyond my abilities to address.

"Have you thought about maybe taking Max to talk with a grief counsellor?" It's always dicey, suggesting professional help to parents. Far too often what they hear is 'your child is broken and it's your fault'. But Mr. Mellark doesn't go on the defensive. Instead, he smiles ruefully, his eyes still fixed on Max.

"We're on our third psychologist since the move," he sighs.

"I'm sure his mother's death has been very confusing for him," I say. He grimaces, still watching Max. "And, uhm. And for you too," I add awkwardly. At that, Mr. Mellark huffs out a laugh, though there's no mirth in his expression.

"Can I be frank with you?" he asks, sliding his eyes to mine. For the first time, I see the anger I was expecting. It somehow centres me, makes me remember that this douchecanoe is failing his kid in every way.

"Sure," I offer, leaning back and crossing my arms.

He turns his attention back to Max, oblivious in his headphones. "I don't think Max had much of a relationship with his mother. I don't know for sure though because…" he trails off, his jaw tensing, as if it's physically painful to talk. I wait him out. Finally, he continues. "Because I didn't know Max existed until after she died."

What?

He's silent for so long that I'm sure he isn't going to explain. Finally, he sighs, and it's as if the anger flows out of him with that sound. "Glimmer - his mother - she and I went to college together. I didn't know her very well, but we had some mutual friends. We hooked up once, at a party in junior year."

"And she got pregnant." I want to slap myself for saying it out loud because duh. But he's not looking at me anyway.

"Yeah, apparently. But she didn't tell me. I never saw her again, never spoke with her again. Her parents have been taking care of Max since he was born."

"How did…" I gesture helplessly between him and where Max sits, blessedly unaware of our conversation.

"The Van Allens tracked me down. Thankfully, Glimmer had at least named me on Max's birth certificate, even if she never told me." His voice drips with resentment. "They're elderly. Mrs. Van Allen has a lot of health concerns and Mr. Van Allen has no patience. They just weren't up to the task of caring for Max. I think they believed Glimmer would eventually give up her party ways and be a mother to Max. But that didn't happen. And it never will now."

"I'm sorry," I say, because I am, and because I have no idea what else to say. So Max isn't reeling from the loss of one parent, but of two; his grandparents. "Does Max still see his grandparents?"

"He's seen them a few times, but they just can't keep up with him now that he's older and more active. He tires them out too quickly." He sighs. "They love him, I know that. But they never set any limits for him, he never had any rules. And Glimmer wandered in and out of his life, she wasn't around enough to parent him. He ruled the roost."

"So Max is having trouble adjusting to your authority?" He shakes his head sadly.

"He barely even acknowledges my existence," he admits softly. We both fall quiet, I'm forced to examine the assumptions I'd made, both about Max and his father, and see how wrong most of them were. Armed with this new information, I can't help but feel awful for both of the blonds sitting in my classroom.

"Max, ah. He seems to like you very much." Mr. Mellark's quiet assertion snaps me out of my reverie.

"I like him too." I glance over at Max, who is again absorbed in his audiobook.

"He hasn't really bonded with any of my family, with anyone at all, really. And we're working on that with the psychologist. But I wonder, if. Well…" He trails off. His ears are pink-tipped again, and he won't meet my eyes. "You're the only person he seems to have any sort of attachment to."

"What do you mean?"

"Max talks about you, Miss Everdeen. You're the only thing he's mentioned about school at all. And I wonder…" He trails off as Max, clearly having listened to the entire thirty minute run time of the audiobook, takes off the giant headphones and wanders back over to us. Again, he approaches my side of the desk, not his father's. Mr. Mellark looks stricken.

I had intended on speaking with them about behaviour rewards, but I can see that adhesive stars aren't going to make any difference in this case. Though I'm not a psychologist, I have a strong feeling that what they truly need is each other. And maybe that's something I can nudge along. "We have a class parent program here," I start, keeping my voice light but willing Mr. Mellark to understand. "Volunteers who come in for a couple of hours a week to help with arts and crafts, or story time."

His blue eyes shine with understanding… and gratitude. "I could definitely spare a couple of afternoons from the bakery," Mr. Mellark says. "Would that be all right with you, Max?" Max shrugs, but I catch a hint of interest behind his indifferent mask.

o-o-o

This man is made to be a parent.

Mr. Mellark - Peeta - has spent ninety minutes in my classroom each Tuesday and Friday afternoon for the past two weeks. And he is so, so good with the children. He's boundlessly patient, even when Lila knocked her jar of paint water over for the fourth time. His smiles and gentle words have charmed every kid in the class.

Well, every child but one.

Max sometimes glances at his father with curiosity, but resists interacting directly. But Peeta tries, over and over.

My heart hurts for both of them.

After today's art project, the kids line up to file outside for recess with my teaching aide. Peeta tries to say goodbye to Max but, as usual, Max is having none of it, refusing to acknowledge his father at all, shrugging off the gentle hand Peeta sets on his shoulder, and marching away.

I stay behind, watching Peeta gather up papers and supplies, stacking them neatly for me. He's so considerate, so unlike what I was expecting. And I don't think it's just an act for the classroom. I've spoken with him on the phone a few times, planning for his classroom visits, discussing Max's behaviour, and, yeah, just chatting. He's nice to talk to, always calm, steady, kind. I don't make friends easily but Peeta, like his son, crept up on me.

Today though, I can see in the way his shoulders are hunched that he's completely dispirited.

"Hey," I say, coming to stand beside him. He glances away, sucking in a shuddering breath.

"He hates me. My own son hates me." There's no self-pity in his voice. Just resignation.

"He doesn't hate you, Peeta," I tell him, and reach out to gently touch his arm. "He's afraid to love you. Because everyone he's ever loved has left him."

Peeta lifts his eyes, holding mine in a way that makes every hair on my body stand up; makes me feel like, in that moment, he can see straight into my soul, read the fear and loneliness of my own early years as clearly as the chalkboard behind us. But instead of calling attention to my history, dissecting my pain, he merely sighs and asks, "What can I do?"

"Show him that you're not going anywhere, and neither is he. Make sure he knows this is permanent, that you're his daddy forever."

"I've missed out on so much already, Katniss. His first smile, his first steps, his first word. I can't get that time back. To him, I'm just some stranger who stole him away from his home."

"You're doing everything right." I slide my hand up to his shoulder, rub comforting circles on his back. "Just be patient. He'll come around."

"I hope so," he says. "It's all I want. I love him, I truly do, and I hate seeing him so miserable."

It's so perfectly Peeta, to be worried not about his own bruised feelings like so many other people in this situation might be, but instead he's worried about Max. I can't help but be angry on his behalf, angry that he was denied an opportunity to be a father to Max for so long. I know he carries so much guilt about it too. Max could have - should have - had a loving, supportive parent all along.

But it's not too late, I'm certain of that. These two need each other. I really believe they're going to figure that out. And I'll do anything I can to help.

We stand side-by-side in silence, each lost in thought as I rub his back, completely oblivious to the passage of time. Then the bell rings, warning me that recess is over and my room will soon be overrun by six year olds again. "Shoot," he says. "I'd better run. I'm sorry I wasted your whole break." He shoves the last of the supplies onto the shelf, and turns to leave, but I catch his hand.

"Hey, no, you didn't waste my time. I, uh, I'm glad we can talk. I mean-" Ugh, I can talk to little kids for hours at a time, but I can't articulate a single thought to this man. "I like talking with you, Peeta."

He smiles, just a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I smile too. He squeezes my hand, but already we can hear the clomping of children filing back into the school. With a little wave, he slips out of the class before the kids return.

It's only an hour later that I realize that in his hurry to get out before the kids came back, he left his messenger bag behind. I send him a text, offering to bring it to him in the morning, and he gratefully accepts. And okay, I admit it's not just that I'm a super nice person. I also kind of like the idea of seeing him again, away from the classroom.

o-o-o

Mellark's bakery is a charming old storefront on the corner of Victor's and Main, an area I've never really frequented despite it being no more than ten minutes from my house. Even before I'm close enough to read the sign, I can smell the hot yeasty aroma of fresh bread, and a faint hint of cinnamon underneath. It's mouthwatering. Huge old-fashioned glass windows glint in the morning sun, and the front door is propped open, beckoning me in.

The inside is just as nice, black and white checkerboard tiles and warm wood everywhere. Pristine glass cases filled with utterly delectable-looking goodies. A few tables are scattered by the large windows, the perfect place to sit with a coffee and a treat and watch the world go by. It's a good thing I didn't know this place existed before now, I might never have left.

Equally attractive is the trifecta of blond men in my midst. Two stand behind the counter, engrossed in low conversation. Peeta, looking even more more appealing than usual in a simple white tee that emphasizes his broad chest and muscled arms. I had no idea he was hiding that under the button down shirts he usually wears to the school. Beside him, a man who can only be his own father - same height, same build, same golden curls, though the elder Mellark's are shot with silver and cropped a little more closely. Clearly the Mellark genes are strong. Either that, or they're cloning themselves in the bakery kitchen.

The third Mellark sits at one of the tall tables, busily colouring. The morning sun filters through his hair, haloing him. If this was your only impression of Max Van Allen Mellark, you might think he was an angel. But his brows are drawn together in more than just concentration. Anger, annoyance, and frustration are all painted on his features.

Peeta looks up, catches me standing in the doorway and smiles gently. "Hey," he says. "You found us."

When Max hears his father's voice, he too looks up, and the angry expression melts away. "Miss Everdeen!" he yells, clambering down from the high stool. "You came to visit!" He skips across the bakery and hugs me tight.

"I came to see you, and to bring back your daddy's bag. He forgot it in our class yesterday." Peeta has moved from behind the counter, smiling as he approaches us. Behind him, Max's grandfather just looks stunned. Peeta's mentioned before that Max hasn't bonded well with very many people, but I don't think I appreciated until now just how special the bond he and I have developed is.

"Thank you, Katniss," he says softly, those stunning blue eyes warm and welcoming. I know he's not just talking about the satchel. "Will you stay and have breakfast with us?"

I don't have a chance to answer before Max is hopping up and down, yanking on my hand to guide me over to the table where he was sitting. "Yes, yes, stay, please!" he chirps. And I can't help but laugh. His enthusiasm is adorable, and all too rare.

As I get settled, Peeta asks Max if he'd like to get something for me from the pastry case. Max looks surprised, wary but a little pleased too. It might be the first time I've seen him look at Peeta with anything other than contempt. "What would you like to eat, Miss Everdeen?" he asks. I can't help but grin at his formality. He might not show it, but he's clearly been listening to Peeta serve customers.

"What's your favourite thing to eat here, Max?" I ask, and he shrugs, but I'm undeterred. "I'd like to try whatever you like best." He nods, just once, and turns to run behind the counter.

"Get one for yourself too, Max," Peeta calls as he walks to the fancy coffee machine, laughing quietly.

Peeta returns with two mugs of hot chocolate, and a cup of tea for himself, and Max carries two ceramic plates with all of the precision a six-year-old can manage, proudly setting one in front of me. "What's this, Max?" I ask. It's golden and flaky, covered in a thick layer of bubbly cheese.

"Cheese buns," he says, climbing onto the stool beside me. "Hey, you like hot chocolate too?" He gestures to my mug. "It's my favourite!" Peeta watches with amusement as Max nimbly slurps the melting whipped cream from his own mug.

Grinning, I pull a corner off the treat sitting in front of me. It smells fantastic. And as the rich, buttery pastry melts on my tongue I can't suppress a groan. "This is fantastic," I sigh. Why didn't I know about this place sooner? "Did you make these?" I tease Max. He shakes his head solemnly.

"Would you like to learn how?" Peeta asks his son hesitantly. "It's a very old recipe, my father taught me and your uncles when we were about your age. I'd love to teach you, too." Max looks at him warily. But then he nods, tentatively but still, a nod. Peeta's smile is brighter than the sunlight streaming through the windows, and so much warmer too.

"Look Miss Everdeen," Max says shyly. "This is how I like to eat my cheese buns." He tears off little pieces or the bread, dipping them in his hot chocolate before eating them. I do the same, to humour him, and it isn't half bad.

I spend another half hour in the bakery in pleasant conversation. Peeta's father wanders over in between customers, he's just as kind and charming as his son. Max continues to act mostly indifferent to his father and grandfather. But I know what I saw. A little flash of hope.

o-o-o

"Miss Everdeen!" Max practically bursts through the classroom door, charging at me excitedly. That's a good sign I think, especially for a Monday. "Look what I made you!" He's clutching a white paper bag and I know what I'll find inside.

The cheese bun is just perfect.

"You made that?" Leevy Richards is staring inquisitively over Max's shoulder. He stiffens, but instead of lashing out at her like he typically would, he just shrugs. "Like by yourself?" Leevy can be a little pushy.

"My dad helped with the oven, but I did everything else." There's a small, proud smile on his face. Leevy grins too. "He's going to teach me how to make cookies next."

My heart feels like it'll pound out of my chest. Max is interacting with one of his classmates in a non-confrontational manner. Maybe even friendly. And even more that that: Max referred to Peeta as his father, for the first time.