Chapter 4– Complete

Surprise! A super long one today... and it's a good one. Definitely my favorite so far.

But the deal for this chapter is... you gotta let me know what you think!

Chapter 4

Katniss

I lay on my bed— no, not my bed, the bed— on top of the fluffy duvet staring at the perfect white ceiling above me. Even the ceiling here reminds me that I'm not at home. No cracks crisscrossing above me. No discolored yellow circles staining the drywall overhead.

It's pristine. But it isn't home.

I listen as Effie screams in the hallway outside my locked door.

According to her shrieks, I'm an ungrateful brat.

She's right. I am ungrateful. I don't appreciate her keeping me one little bit. I resent being here. I didn't ask for this and I certainly didn't want this.

I'd give anything to be at my house. At my home. With my family. With Prim.

Stop. Quiet. Don't cry.

Effie screams at me to unlock my door "right this instant". She screams for me to "come clean this mess up". She screams about her priceless French china that I'd shattered.

"It was part of a matched set from my trip to Paris!"

I ignore it all.

After several minutes, she finally stops shouting. I hear perfect Peeta tell her quietly that he'll clean up the mess. I roll my eyes at the ceiling.

I curl onto my side and pull my knees to my chest. My hollow belly aches with hunger. I shouldn't have smashed the food. I shouldn't have hit Peeta. Why, oh why, do I keep lashing out at him?

What the hell is wrong with me?

What is it about him that just pushes me over the edge?

No matter. If I keep going like this they'll have to take me away from this place. They won't leave me here forever if I won't come out, if I won't speak, if I won't eat. They'll give in before I will.

I close my eyes and feel myself beginning to drift. But just as sleep begins to take me, a pair of piercing blue eyes appear in my mind and I hear Peeta's concerned words again. I heard you last night. And I was worried.

My eyes fly open. Suddenly, I'm wide awake again.

I can feel the heat rising into my face, embarrassed that he heard me. When he spoke those words, I knew immediately what he'd heard last night.

I'd had one of my nightmares again. I've been having them for months— seven months to be exact— since my father was killed by a car weaving through the construction zone where he was directing traffic. They hit him half an hour before his shift was scheduled to end. Killed on impact. The driver didn't even stop.

"Probably drunk or high or had a warrant out for their arrest," I heard the police officer tell mama.

Yes, the nightmares are nothing new, but they've gotten so much worse this week. Every time I close my eyes they come right away, like a film waiting to begin as soon as the darkness comes, but they no longer only contain my father. Now they include my mother and sometimes even Prim.

I've woken myself up screaming more nights than I can count. And last night was no acception.

Mama and Prim stopped sharing a room with me right after papa's death because of them. It was lonely at night and always hard waking up alone after a terrifying nightmare, but I understood them needing to be able to sleep. I especially hated scaring Prim with my screams.

Prim. What I wouldn't give to cuddle up in bed with her just one more time.

Stop. Quiet. Don't cry.

I pull myself up and move to settle against the wall in the corner of the room.

No sleeping.

I can't face the nightmares again.

Not now. Not ever.

—

I spend several hours propped awkwardly against the wall. My tail bone aches every time I move and my left leg falls asleep from sitting cross legged for too long.

I keep nodding off, but every time my head hits my chest I jolt awake again. I dig my finger nails sharply into my wrist as I try my best to stay alert.

But, I must finally really fall asleep, because the sudden loud whir of a drill jolts me awake. I pull myself to my feet confused.

For a moment, I'm not sure where I am or how I got here. As I stare around the large strange room for the sound of the disturbance, it all comes back in a tidal wave of emotions heavy enough to crush me.

The silent house and dark rooms. Mama's blank unseeing eyes. The screaming that I didn't even know was my own. The police lights. Cinna.

A gasping sob escapes my lips before I can stop it. I wrap my arms tightly around my middle. The pain of the memories doubles me over as I take another gasping breath.

Stop. Quiet. Don't cry.

The ear piercing screech of metal against metal pulls me back from my memories. I slam my hands over my ears as the noise reverberates around the enormous room.

The noise is coming from the hallway right outside my locked door.

I realize what the noise is only a moment before the door knob falls away from the door and lands with a hard thud on the floor. The glass sphere rolling in place.

Fury. That's what I feel. Complete and utter rage. I want to pummel something. I want to shatter every stupid figurine on my desk. I want to flip the dresser. I want to burn the whole house to the ground.

I can't even choose to be alone in this stupid house.

All I want is a moment. Just some time to gather myself. Compose myself. I still can't even believe how much my live has changed this week. I've lost everything.

Everything.

I just need to be able to curl up in the dark and mourn. Without curious prying eyes. Without being on stage for these perfect merchants like some freak.

The drill stops its incessant whizzing and the door swings open to reveal stupid pompous Effie and some sort of handyman who is holding the drill.

"There you go ma'am. Piece 'a cake."

"Thank you!" Effie trills as the man disappears out of the doorway. She turns to me and frowns.

"The door stays open!" She says with her arms crossed over her ridiculous sequin top. "And you'll join us for meals."

I respond by sticking my tongue out at her. She lets out a disgruntled huff and her nose flares furiously.

It would almost be amusing to watch her mini-tantrums if it wasn't for how angry I am. I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She is trying to think of a way to make me do what she wants.

But how do you punish someone that has nothing and does nothing. You can't.

I go back to staring at the ceiling above her head.

"Door stays open or I'll take it off it's hinges," she says in a hiss of frustration before she storms down the hall. Her high heels clicking angrily as she retreats.

I hate prissy Effie. I hate perfect Peeta. I hate this house. I hate my life.

—-

Effie announces loudly from the kitchen to the house that she's leaving for work and won't be back until late. Apparently she's going in late today, having spent the morning getting someone to decimate my door.

I roll my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Laying on top of the duvet in the same outfit that I never bothered to take off.

I plan on laying here all day, just like I've been the last three days and nights. The door being open doesn't make any difference to my plans.

Except the open door seems to make a difference to Peeta.

He seems to think it's a welcome invitation. Not five minutes after Effie has made her announcement, Peeta is standing in my doorway holding a brightly colored box of fruit loops.

I roll my eyes again. I wouldn't have expected anything less colorful from the likes of Effie.

I lay back on the mattress and ignore Peeta. He leans against the doorframe and digs around in the box, pulling out a handful and lazily throwing it back into his mouth.

"Want some?" He asks cheerily, as though we are friends. As though I didn't try to smash his face with a plate of food this morning.

I ignore him.

He doesn't seem to mind.

"So I think maybe we got off to a bad start." Peeta says gently from the doorway. I let out a derisive snort, but I find myself looking over at him without meaning to.

His blond curls are damp and curling up around his face from a recent shower— probably washing the scrambled eggs out of his hair. He's wearing a soft looking blue sweater that he's pushed up to his elbows and a pair of dark blue jeans. He looks clean and cared for and loved.

The opposite of what I'm sure I look like in this moment. The thought sends a harsh heat up my neck.

I try to push some of my hair back behind my shoulder, but I'm embarrassed to find that the hair that was woven into a braid four days ago, before my whole life changed forever, has now become a matted tangle around my face.

But more than his clothes, the most striking thing is his eyes. They are the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen. Startling and breath taking with their intensity. And theirs a boyish air about him of confidence and optimism.

I have to look away quickly, feeling my blush climb further up my neck and into my cheeks.

"Do you mind if I come in?" He asks.

I shoot him my best practiced scowl and he chuckles. It's a gentle, light-hearted sound. I like it. I want to hear it again.

"Okay," he says softly, with a sideways smile. "I'll take that as a no,"

I have to look away again. Something about his presence and his warm endearing smile makes me feel uncomfortable. He needs to go away.

"I'll just leave these here," he says. And drops the box of fruit loops by the door, "just in case you change your mind." He gives another crooked smile and he's gone.

And his absence leaves behind a cold empty feeling in me.

I take a deep unsettled breath. He makes me nervous and angry and excited and confused all at once. I don't think I like it.

—

But Peeta continues dropping off food at my door throughout the day. A jar of peanuts he finds in the pantry. A little bag of chocolates that he said Effie hides on top of the fridge. A bag of some kind of flavored chips he says I "absolutely have to try". He even fixes me a thick turkey and cheddar sandwich and some soup for lunch.

He places the bowl and plate right inside my door alongside the growing collection of food he's left since breakfast. But, instead of retreating, like he's done after placing the other snacks inside the doorway, he settles himself on the floor and leans against the threshold.

"Want to join me?" He calls to me as he takes a generous bite of a sandwich he'd brought for himself. "Mmmmm..." he says enthusiastically. "Oh... this is good!" I have to bite back a smile at his ridiculous antics. He must see my resolve breaking because he says, "no, seriously! Effie buys the good stuff. Out of the deli. None of those pre-packaged meats. Soooo much better!" He takes another bite and I force myself back to stern disinterest.

"Suit yourself!" He says with a shrug as he continues eating.

There's something about Peeta's continued attempts to coax me into eating that is very endearing. I can't remember the last time someone cooked me anything— the last time someone cared if I was fed or taken care of. Certainly since before my father's death.

My constant refusal to try the foods Peeta brings doesn't seem to deter him in the slightest. If anything it makes him more determined to break me.

In the afternoon, I hear him clanging around the kitchen for a long time. I'm curious what he's making now, but I force myself to remain in my room. I'm sure I'll know soon enough. I imagine whatever it is he'll bring me some. The thought sends a tiny thrill through me that I quickly have to stamp down.

We are not friends. I do not like him. He is merchant. I am Seam. We can't be friends. We are not the same. I am not here for friends.

But as I lay with my eyes closed listening to Peeta's movements, I get a tiny whiff of a scent. A smell, both oddly familiar and distinctly foreign at the same time. I reach around in my memory and the closest I can come up with is pizza. Maybe cheese pizza. I recognize the scent of warm melty cheese and dough. But it's not quite pizza.

My mouth salivates of its own accord and my stomach gives a loud, painful rumble. I curl onto my side and bury my face into the pillow to block out the enticing smells. I wrap my arms about me and cling tightly to my belly, trying to calm the raging ache that began as soon as I smelled the food.

A soft knock on the open door jolts me out of my pillow, but Peeta breaks his own rule and takes a few tentative steps into the room.

Peeta's watching me with a look of deep concern on his boyish face and I can feel my face darkening again in shame.

He'd seen me curled on the bed clinging to my stomach.

I chew my lip nervously and stare at my lap. Unable to meet his eyes as the raging blush fills my face.

"I made you something." He says cautiously, holding out a plate with large round rolls the size of softballs.

I glance at him curiously as he takes a few more steps towards me. He places the plate and a large glass of water on the nightstand beside the bed and backs away quickly.

The smell of warm yeasty dough and oozing cheddar fills the room. Its intoxicating. The aroma, sitting so close to my place on the bed, is so thick and warm and filling it's making my head spin.

My stomach gives another loud pleading growl that I know Peeta must have heard. I chew my lip harder to keep from drooling in anticipation.

"Try just a nibble," Peeta pleads quietly.

I want to say no. I want to refuse, but this plate of hot rolls, steam billowing up in winding coils, is so overwhelmingly intoxicating that I can't quite remember why I wasn't supposed to eat them to begin with.

I pinch off a tiny piece that burns the tips of my fingers and meet Peeta's eye. He gives a small reassuring nod, his eyes shimmering with anticipation.

I pop the piece of gooey cheese covered bread into my mouth. My eyes close of their own accord.

A loud, embarrassing moan of approval escapes my throat without my permission.

My eyes shoot open and lock onto Peeta. I'm completely mortified, but he is looking at me with an expression of overwhelming awe and pleasure.

My face bakes to a blinding blush and I look away quickly.

"They're good aren't they!" He says happily. "I used to make them at the bakery with my dad. They're called cheese buns. Here, have some more. There's plenty!"

I wish I could refuse after that humiliating noise that I made, but I can't. I take the rest of the roll and eat it piece by delicious piece.

When I look up at Peeta again, he's still standing frozen in the middle of my room. Watching me savor every morsel of the delicious rolls. He looks as though I've just given him the moon and his gaze makes me nervous. I take the plate and hold it out to him.

"No, no," he says quickly. "You keep them. I have plenty more in the kitchen."

I shake my head. He doesn't understand. I want him to eat one too. I take one off the plate and hold it out.

His face breaks into a gorgeous, white toothed smile and my stomach does a funny little flip.

"Want to share?" He asks to be sure, and when I nod he moves to settle at the foot of the bed and splits the roll in half. He gives me back half and we eat in companionable silence.

We eat happily on the next three rolls. Peeta goes and refills the plate with a heaping mound, but I can only manage to eat one more roll before I'm stuffed and feeling a little sick from eating for the first time in almost four days. He tries to coax me to eat another, but I give a low groan and rub my small belly. This is more food then I've eaten in over a week and it's making me feel quite nauseous.

He gives that sweet chuckle and smiles happily at me and I duck my head so he can't see the grin threatening to cross my face.

"I'll save you some for dinner!" He says and climbs out of bed to take the rolls to the kitchen. He pauses at the door and waves to the other snacks "do you want any of this stuff?"

I let out another groan and shake my head as I flop down onto my pillow. Peeta laughs merrily.

"I thought not," he says and gathers all of the food to take with him to the kitchen.

The suns only just barely beginning to set, but with a full belly and so little rest, I find myself drifting off to sleep. I have a vague, unfocused dream of someone pulling a soft throw blanket up over my body and gently pushing the loose hairs off of my face before the darkness takes me under completely.

For the first time in a very long time, I have no dreams.

—

The following morning, I wake to Peeta's light knock on my open bedroom door. He's already holding three cheese buns and has a look of nervous anticipation on his face. Maybe he thinks I've decided I don't like cheese buns over night. Maybe he's expecting me to return to throwing things at him.

I pull myself up in bed and rub my eyes. There's a small fluffy blanket over my legs that I don't recognize. I run my hands over it and admire its softness. It's like petting a rabbit.

"I brought you something," Peeta says nervously.

I give him a cheeky look and he smiles broadly before placing them on the nightstand. He hovers awkwardly for a minute watching me. I think he expects me to snatch a cheese bun up and shove the entire thing in my mouth. After a little pause he says,

"I'm going to go eat breakfast with Effie..." I scowl at Effie's name, "... and I'll be back in just a little bit." I nod and he leaves the room quickly.

I get up and sneak to the bathroom to pee. Afterwards, while I wash my hands, I glance in the mirror and groan aloud at my matted hair and purple circles under my eyes. I'm embarrassed that I had Peeta sitting on my bed so close to me yesterday when I've looked like this all day.

But it didn't seem to bother him at all. I remember the way he smiled that blinding smile when I ate the cheese bun he'd made and my stomach flutters nervously.

I slip back into my room and for the first time since my arrival, dig through my backpack for a new change of clothes. I don't have much— one winter outfit made up of a worn pair of jeans and one long sleeve sweater that has frayed and unraveled in several places. I also have my single set of night clothes— a pair of sleep shorts and a short sleeve shirt. Other than the two outfits I have the clothes I'm wearing, a rolled up ball of socks, one other pair of plain cotton panties that I typically rotate every day, my hair brush and toothbrush.

Before coming I'd had one extra winter outfit and my father's old hunting coat, but the police had taken that as part of their investigation. So, I'm down to two winter outfits and no jacket.

I snatch up some of the clothes and the brushes and slip back down the hall and into the bathroom.

It takes me at least ten minutes to brush out my tangled mess of hair. I'm half tempted to cut it off and forget it all together, but I don't.

I play with the knobs on the shower and brush my teeth while I wait for the water to run warm.

After a few adjustments the temperature is just right and I strip out of my clothes and climb in. The hot water pours down my body and I savor the feel.

I haven't had a hot shower since sometime in June. Our hot water heater went out just a few months after my father died and I didn't know what to do about it. I, of course, couldn't figure out how to fix it and I couldn't afford the cost of a repairman or a new unit. Anyways, a twelve year old buying a hot water heater would have led to funny questions— like where's your mother. I couldn't afford those kinds of questions.

Not that it made a difference in the end, I think bitterly.

So instead, I boiled water on the stove so that Prim could have warm baths. I didn't bother for me though. I just took fast, cold showers. It wasn't too bad in the summer, but since around Halloween I'd leap out of the shower shaking and shivering no matter how quick I was.

So, this hot water is pure luxury. And I plan to savor every moment of it until every ounce of hot water has run out.

And I do.

After the hot jets cool to warm and then dip further to tepid, I cut them off and dress quickly, pulling on my cotton panties and a small sports bra.

The bra is entirely unnecessary, but I wear it more out of habit. For a small period of time several months before my twelfth birthday I did begin developing a chest— small, but it was there none the less. But after my father's death and with the struggle to feed myself, Prim, and my mother, the hunger stole the little curves that I had formed. I didn't really care though. I've always been rather unnoticeable— breasts or no breasts.

I slip into my sleep shorts and the oversized forest green sweater. The stretched out collar hangs loosely around my neck and I have to roll the sleeves up to be able to use my hands. My wet hair drips onto my shoulders.

I feel like a whole new person. I'm still hurting. If I think of my mother or Prim I halfway feel like I can't breathe. But the hot shower was so refreshing and it took with it some of the anger I've felt since welfare picked me up.

I wrap a towel around my head and dart back to my bed, where I settle deep in the warm duvet and pull the fuzzy throw up to my chin. It smells oddly of cinnamon. I like it.

I cuddle in deeper while I devour one cheese bun after another. They're delicious and truly impossible to refuse.

Peeta peers in on me just as I'm holding the last cheese bun.

"Hey," he calls from the doorway to grab my attention. I want to scowl at him. I want to hate him. But their's something about Peeta, maybe the gentle way he talks or how caring he is towards people, and it just pulls me in. Hurting Peeta would be like kicking a puppy.

"Wanna play a game?" He asks enthusiastically as he comes in my room and perches on the end of the bed.

I squint at him and wait for him to elaborate.

"I'll tell you something about me but then you have to tell me about you," I scowl hard at him. He lets out that soft chuckle again.

"You don't have to talk. Just yes or no answers." I'm still not sure about this game. Peeta must see my apprehension because he smiles reassuringly.

"My favorite color is orange like the sunset." He smiles fondly, "And yours... hmmm... is it purple?" He asks with a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

I scrunch my nose.

"Pink?" He snorts, trying to keep a straight face.

I mime puking. Peeta bursts out laughing. My stomach does another flip at the glorious sound of it and I find myself watching him as he chuckles. The way his entire face lights up, the twinkle in his piercing blue eyes.

"Your face!" He hoots happily. "Priceless! No, you're definitely not a pink kinda girl" he says with a smile. He reaches out to touch the collar of my over large forest green sweater. His warm fingers brushing against my collarbone sends a delighted shiver down my spine, "this is your favorite." He says. It's not really a question. He says it more like a statement. A certainty.

I glance up and his piercing blue gaze finds mine. Yes, forest green is my favorite— but suddenly right now, looking into those shimmering aqua eyes, I think I might change my favorite color to blue.

I swallow nervously and give him a nod. He smiles triumphantly.

We go on like this for most of the morning. He learns that I hate coffee, but love tea all doctored up with milk or sugar. I learn that he loves tea but just plain unsweetened. I learn that he likes to sleep with the windows open. He learns that I don't like cats. I learn that he wrestles and bakes and draws, but he can't seem to guess what my favorite hobby is. I suppose archery is pretty unique. Especially for a twelve year old girl.

He goes on and on guessing and with each guess I shake my head no.

"I give up!" He groans with a laugh, throwing himself back on my bed. "I think you just don't have any hobbies. I've guessed everything."

I tap his arm to get his attention and then mime shooting an arrow. He looks at me puzzled for a moment before a bright smile crosses his face.

"You like to shoot? Like a bow and arrow?" I nod vigorously. Proud that I was able to convey my thoughts without words.

"Wow! That's amazing." He says looking flabbergasted. "Can you show me sometime? I want to see,"

Suddenly, I feel a bit nervous. I twirl my still slightly damp hair shyly around my finger and give a little shrug, successfully pulling another chuckle from Peeta. My heart leaps at the sound.

"That's okay." He says with a shrug of his own, "just if you want to show me one day,"

I like that he doesn't push. I like that he lets me have the final say. It's like yesterday with the food. He took it as a personal challenge to get me to eat, but he never demanded anything of me. He just offered and then let me decide what I wanted to do.

After this week of feeling so out of control— having my entire world turned upside down in an instant— it's nice to be able to make decisions about something. Anything. Lately, I've felt like the only thing I can control at all in my life is my choice to eat and speak. But Peeta makes me feel more grounded. Like I have more options. More say in how my story goes.

I really like it a lot.

Peeta lays back onto the bed to continue our game, but suddenly, I notice something small and black across his forehead where his bangs have fallen off to the side. Without thinking I reach out and move his hair so I can see better. Beneath them my fingers catch on the rough black threads of a long row of neat stitches.

Peeta freezes, the smile vanishing from his boyish face. He pushes himself up on his elbows so he can see me better. He watches me nervously with those striking blue eyes.

I frown hard at him.

"It's nothing. Really." He murmurs, pulling away from my hand and flattening his bangs out over his forehead. I put on my best challenging stare.

"Really it's nothing," he says quietly, "it's just— well... it's the reason I'm here," he says shortly.

I watch him for a minute more before deciding to drop it. I'm pretty certain he's lost his family like me. Why else would he be here? Maybe he survived some accident that his family didn't. Maybe a car crash?

Yes, that would explain the injury. But, he seems oddly unwilling to talk about it. But then again, I completely understand. I don't want to talk about losing my family either.

I just nod at him and decide to leave it alone.

I try to put every unspoken feeling of understanding and remorse into that nod. I'm not sure what else to do. There's not much else you can do without words and I'm just not ready to talk yet.

I'm not sure I'll ever be ready to talk again.

But, Peeta doesn't let my curiosity about his stitches or his missing family deter our fun. He moves right along with our game. Guessing my favorite season, guessing what month I was born in, guessing my favorite holiday.

Nothing serious. Nothing deep. No talk of family or home.

After quite a while of playing Peeta's guessing game, he disappears to retrieve his drawings and shows them to me. He is so talented. The work is exquisite and unique. He has an eye for seeing things differently and putting them into art.

A flour covered kitchen counter. A fancy cookie display in a shop window. A rolling pin. Cinna's black car pulled up along a curb. The shrubs and little shed in Effie's back yard.

We play another game. Peeta draws as fast as he can and then asks me to guess what it is. I scribble my answers at the top. It's too easy. He's amazing at drawing.

I try to draw something once, but my horse looks more like a camel with the face of a pig. Peeta bursts out laughing and I wack him with the notebook. He hits me with a pillow and I dive on top of him to take the pillow away. He's laughing so hard he can't hold me off and I take advantage of his weakness by pummeling him with the feather pillow.

"Hey, ouch, stop it!" He laughs between feather pillow blows. He finally jerks it from my hands and we both collapse laughing onto the bed.

I don't know when was the last time I laughed like this.

Guilt suddenly washes over me like a bucket of ice water being poured over my head. I sit up quickly and pull away from Peeta, turning my back on him.

What have I done?

How did I forget them even for an instant?

"Hey... Katniss," Peeta says sitting up quickly. "What is it? What's wrong?"

I pull away from him quickly. My heart beating in my ears. The weight of guilt in my stomach is so painful that for a moment I think I may throw up.

I forgot them. I forgot them all.

I'm not supposed to be happy. I'm not supposed to have fun. Not with them gone.

I wrap my arms around my middle to fight the nausea as my heart thrums a deafening rhythm in my ears. I can't seem to catch my breath. I let out a gasping pant as the anxiety and remorse comes rolling over me. The lump in my throat is suffocating.

Is this what a heart attack feels like?

Is this what it feels like to die. Panting for your last breath as your heart beats out of control.

Peeta gently touches my shoulder, making me jump and I pull further away from him.

"You... you okay?" He asks nervously. I chew the inside of my cheek hard until I taste blood. The metallic zing is startling and brings me back slightly.

I give a little nod, but I can feel Peeta watching me still. I know he's confused about my sudden shift but I can't worry about it right now. I'm too worried that this might be my last breath.

At least then I could be with my family again.

Stop that, I scold myself firmly, Prim wouldn't want that.

Prim. The thought of her makes the weight of my guilt double for even considering death as an option. I can't do that. I can't willingly leave this life behind.

I feel the familiar sting in my eyes and I have to bite the bleeding inside of my cheek hard.

Stop. Quiet. Don't cry.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Peeta asks gently from behind me. I shake my head before I ever really consider it.

No. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I wish I could forget.

But forgetting brings guilt.

Peeta touches my wrist gently and the soft feeling of his warm fingers against my arm startles me. I should pull away. But I really don't want to.

"That's okay." Peeta says gently, "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." He pauses for a moment before continuing. "I ummm... well, just... thanks for spending the morning with me. It's been pretty... uhhh... lonely here. It's nice having someone to spend time with."

I look around at him and see him looking at me with such sincerity that it eases some of the guilt in my chest a bit.

Maybe Cinna was right. Maybe Peeta is hurting too. Maybe he's just better at hiding it than me.

To all my awesome reviewers, THANK YOU! I love hearing from you more than you possibly could know.

And to you phantom readers out there— you just have to tell me what you thought of this one!

So what did you think?

Isn't Peeta just the sweetest?

BTW—I'm sure all of you that are following this noticed the name change. I just wasn't LOVING the "Homeless but not Helpless"... a bit corny. So whatcha think of "Silent Secrets"? I like it better, but I'm not sure if I'm sold on it yet. What's your thoughts?