From the Tumblr Everlark Fic Exchange challenge. Prompt 35: Peeta is Prim's teacher. She is having a hard time with his class and Katniss decides to confront him. [submitted by Anonymous]
Part one. Rated K (fic is rated M for future considerations). The only warning is that I'm incapable of writing things without curse words.

This will probably be part 1 of 2, because I'm not quite done with this universe.

It's too quiet when I get home from work. The television should be flashing, music blaring, teenaged giggles should be filling the room. But it's silent.

"Prim?" There's no answer to my call, no shuffling of steps, nothing. Rationally, I know there's no need to panic. She's probably in her room, studying. Concentrating so hard that she doesn't hear me.

"Prim!" Louder now, insistent. Maybe a little hysterical. But coming into a quiet house just reminds me too much of another day, when I came home to a quiet house. When I came home to find my father dead on the kitchen floor and my mother nearly catatonic next to his body.

I take the stairs two at a time, and burst into my sister's room with enough force to smash her door against the wall. She's sprawled across her bed, and she jumps at the bang, whipping her head around to face me. Her expression is one of fear and confusion, but her cheeks are wet with tears.

"Primmy, oh my God, you didn't answer." I've crossed the tiny room in 3 steps and am clutching at her, looking for injuries, looking for a reason for her quiet and for her tears. She shoves me away as roughly as her tiny frame can manage, and pulls a pair of hot pink earbuds from her ears.

"What the hell, Katniss?" She's breathing nearly as hard as I am, angry and probably embarrassed by my outburst, but I don't care. I hug her hard.

"You didn't answer. I thought…" Her body softens against mine, and her thin arms snake out to wrap around my waist.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. I'm okay. We're okay, Katniss." I just nod into her hair. She knows, better than anyone, about my fears. And I know hers. For the past three years it's been Prim and me against the world. We are all each other has left.

It isn't until we're eating supper together, noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, that Prim finally tells me why she was crying earlier, and only after I've asked her four or five times.

She sighs, swirling her spoon through the dregs of her soup aimlessly. "It's that class," she mumbles.

"Which class?" Prim is a high school sophomore, and absolutely brilliant. She would get straight A's without even trying, but she won't settle for that. She works insanely hard, taking advanced placement courses, doing community service projects, playing flute in the band, joining student government. She wants to go to a good college, and she's determined to get a full ride scholarship. Honestly, she'll need one to make those dreams come true. But I have no doubt she'll make it.

"The graphic design class." It's barely a whisper, and I cringe internally, though I try not to let it show. I already know she doesn't like the class. She tells me she loves it, fakes enthusiasm every time I pick her up at the private business college where the class is held, but I know my baby sister.

"You can withdraw, if you want. You know that." We'd discussed it with her academic advisor at Panem High before signing Prim up, the class won't count against her if she doesn't get a stellar mark. It's a continuing ed course, so even if she wanted to enrol at this college in the future it wouldn't show up on a transcript. Not that it matters. Prim is destined for way bigger things anyway.

"I'm not going to quit." The stubborn set of her chin reminds me so much of my own, and I have to stifle a grin. Prim is my polar opposite in looks and temperament, with her fair colouring where I am dark, and sunny disposition while I can be moody. But when it comes to stubbornness we are two peas in a pod.

I smile a little, but I feel guilty. She's been sticking out this class that she hates - this class that she's only taking because that same damned academic advisor told her she should join the yearbook committee - because the course was really expensive. Though I didn't tell her so, I'm sure she knows we couldn't really afford it. I had to put off replacing the tires on my shitbox car in order to pay for this 2 evenings a week class, plus all of the supplies and fees that went along with it. And I don't mind, I really don't. I'd do anything for Prim, even if it means driving my Corolla like a little old lady every time it rains.

"What can I do then?" I hate to see her so frustrated, so sad. She's really not like this.

"Nothing," she grunts. "I just suck at it, okay. I'm terrible at it."

"Come on, Primmy, I'm sure it's not that bad." I start, but she interrupts me.

"Not that bad? My designs look like a kindergartener scrawled them on toilet paper with a ketchup bottle!" Well there's a visual. "And the others are all submitting these professional layouts… I got my grade back this evening, for my last assignment." She sniffles, her bottom lip trembling, and for a moment she looks like the pink-cheeked toddler I remember from happier days. "I got a 40, Katniss."

"Out of fifty?" I mean, I know she's a perfectionist, but that seems like a decent mark for a class that doesn't matter anyway.

"Forty percent! I failed! And if I can't pull my grade up they're going to ask me to leave." Oh. That's probably true, the registrar had been reluctant enough to allow my not-quite 16 year old sister into the class in the first place, concerned that she wouldn't have the focus or maturity to handle a college course.

"I'm sure we can fix it, there's probably extra credit stuff you can do to pull up the mark…" She shoots me a dirty look.

"Stay out of it, Katniss!" She storms off; the house shudders with the force of her bedroom door slamming. There's the teenager noises I'd been expecting. And though I've been going non-stop since 5 this morning, working two jobs, I gather our dishes and fill the sink with hot soapy water. But while I scrub, I formulate a plan.

Seneca Crane is an asshole.

I emailed Prim's professor and received a very generic reply, advising me to speak to the director of the Arena School of Business, Dr. Crane.

It took 6 tries before the dickwad deigned to even take my call, and then he lectured me about mommies intervening in their children's education. I didn't bother to correct him; he certainly doesn't need to know that our mother is in an institution upstate, or that I'm not even legally Prim's guardian. No, that role belongs to our uncle, Haymitch Abernathy, drunk and unreliable though he is. But good luck getting him to step in anyway. I can barely get him to sign her school papers.

Crane, the bastard, flat out refused to help me. Refused to give me a phone number for Prim's professor, or to allow me to make an appointment to speak with the guy directly. I assume the prof is more rational than his boss, Prim says he's a nice enough guy. I'm sure if I speak with him I can figure out a way to help her.

However, Crane inadvertently gave me the means to sidestep him. Prim's teacher, one Mr Mellark, apparently also works in the bakery on the corner of 12th Avenue. The very charming little mom-and-pop style bakery I'm standing in front of now. With Mellark's written in swooping gold script above glass windows edged in hand painted flowers. Huh. The professor must also be the bakery owner.

Though it's early, the bakery is open, warm golden light spilling out onto the sidewalk, reflecting on the wet pavement, a beacon in the cold, relentless November rain. And like a moth I'm drawn to it, and have stepped through the door before I even have time to consider what I'm going to do. I'd only intended on driving by on my way to the diner where I work on weekends (and evenings when I can grab a shift), just to see what their opening hours are. But it calls to me.

The inside is even more charming than the exterior, warm and good smelling, pristine glass cases displaying the kinds of goodies I could never justify paying for, and tall tables that invite you to bring that gloriously decadent treat over and stay awhile.

I'm so busy gawking at this little slice of heaven that I don't notice the proprietor has come to the counter. "Can I help you, Miss?" My head jerks up at the deep baritone voice that must belong to Mr Mellark. He's broad shouldered and handsome, golden curls that are slightly too long, with just a touch of silver at the temples, and blue eyes that sparkle with amusement from behind thick glasses. Though he's probably about the same age as Uncle Haymitch, he seems much younger. No wonder Prim is so taken with him.

"Mr Mellark?" I ask, and my voice squeaks a little, betraying my nerves. He barely nods before I launch into the speech I've prepared about Prim, about how smart she is and how hard she works, how much this class means to her, how she needs to pad her extracurriculars for college applications, and most importantly how patently unfair the grade she received on her assignment was. The more I ramble, the more his eyes crinkle with confusion and amusement, and the more flustered I get.

I'm close to losing my patience when he holds up a hand. "Miss?" he interrupts, and waits. I haven't even introduced myself. Crap.

"Everdeen," I tell him. "Katniss Everdeen." I hope he doesn't hold my bumbling against Prim. She's already going to be annoyed enough that I've intervened.

"Well Miss Everdeen, it's lovely to meet you, but I suspect you're actually looking for my son since he's the teacher and I'm only a lowly baker." He chuckles at my confused expression, and gestures to one of the tables. "Why don't you have a seat and I'll get him. Would you like some coffee?"

"Oh, uh, n-no thank you," I grumble, and then cringe. Shit, first I burst in and rant at him, keep him from baking or whatever he should be doing, then I don't even buy anything from his shop. I feel like an ass. But he merely smiles kindly and wanders back through a swinging door, probably to a kitchen. I can faintly hear the low murmur of voices, two at least, but can't make out any words.

It feels like I wait forever, though really it can't be more than a few minutes. But I'm already edgy and cranky and second (third?) guessing myself for showing up here unannounced. I've almost made up my mind just to bolt when the door swings open again, and a man about my age stalks through, annoyance clear on his face.

Holy shit.

This is definitely Mr Mellark's son, the resemblance is clear, but while Mellark the senior is attractive the man standing in front of me is drop dead gorgeous. His hair is shorter, falling is ashy waves over his forehead, his eyes so very blue without lenses to obscure them. And his arms, good lord! His biceps bulge under his simple white t-shirt, his forearms are sinewy where they're crossed over his broad chest. My tongue feels thick in my mouth.

He slows when he catches sight of me, the tension in his body falling away. His expression softens, and morphs into confusion as he comes around the counter. "You… are not one of my students," he says, and while his voice is also deep it's so much softer, with an almost musical lilt to it. That voice is doing strange things to my stomach. "I would definitely remember you," he almost whispers.

He uncrosses his arms and stops in front of me; I've clambered to my feet. "I wanted to talk. About P-Prim," is all I manage to say, lost in eyes that are even more magnificent up close. His eyebrows lift in recognition.

"You're the one who emailed me, about your daughter's grade." He snickers, and rakes his gaze down my body. "No, clearly not your daughter." I stiffen at that, the spell of those pretty blue eyes broken.

"Prim. Primrose Everdeen. She's my sister," I scowl.

"And she's not capable of speaking to me herself? This is a college course, there's an expectation of maturity…" He says it blandly enough, but I can hear the subtext.

"She fifteen, Mr Mellark, and I'm her guardian. And besides, this is a continuing ed course, it doesn't even count." He frowns, and the tension creeps back into his stance. Clearly I've hit a nerve.

"Why don't you cut to the chase here, I'm a busy man." His arms are crossed again, the early morning light glints on the dusting of golden hair there, threatening to derail my thought process. I can't look at those stunning eyes either, narrowed in irritation but still adorable. And his mouth, pursed and so kissable. Shit. So I concentrate on his left earlobe instead.

"She's not passing your class," I start but he cuts me off.

"Well aware of that, Miss, and if you're here to beg me to reconsider her grade you're wasting your breath and my time. Her work is subpar, plain and simple." I see red.

"It's an introductory class, maybe it's your teaching that's subpar, ever think of that?"

He laughs bitterly. "You're a real piece of work. My other students are managing just fine but you march in here, into my father's bakery no less, to tell me that it's my fault your sister is failing? I don't have time for this, take it up with Dr Crane." He turns on his heel then, and I panic, shit, I have made everything worse!

"No! Please, wait," I say, moving around him, blocking his way back to the kitchen. His nostrils flare, but he stops, staring down his nose at me.

"I'm sorry," I admit in a small voice, my anger banked, replaced by shame. This is why Prim told me to stay out of it, I tend to make things worse when I open my big mouth. Words are just not my thing. "I didn't mean that. I'm sure you're an excellent teacher, Prim speaks very highly of you." He makes a little noise, a grunt maybe, but continues waiting for me to say my peace. I sigh.

"She doesn't even know that I'm here," I admit and he nods, so I continue. "It's just that she's really struggling, and I don't know how to help her. She's trying, she really is. She's not a slacker. I… I just want to help her." I swallow hard. "She's not an artist, I know that, but she really wants to succeed in this. She… she cried when she got her last mark from you." The last part comes out in a whisper, I know I shouldn't share that, but the effect of my words is instantaneous. His face falls.

"I didn't mean to make her cry," he says softly. Prim has that effect on people, her big blue eyes and sweet smile, nobody wants to see her sad. "I assumed she was just half-assing the class, that she didn't really care about it." He shakes his head and meets my eyes. "She never said anything to me. She barely talks in class at all. I figured she wasn't really interested."

"I think she's intimidated. She's just a kid who wants to be on the yearbook committee and she's surrounded by adults who apparently submit professional presentations."

A little bit of amusement comes back into his eyes. "A lot of my students are professionals. It is continuing ed, after all." I can feel the heat creeping up my neck, stinging in my cheeks.

"I didn't mean to insult you." He cocks a single eyebrow in an expression of disbelief so inadvertently sexy that I have to bite my lip. "Okay, maybe I did. But only because I was upset."

"I get it. You care about your sister," he says simply and I nod. He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the waves. I bet he looks fantastic when he's just rolled out of bed. The untoward visual has me fighting a tide of blood rushing to my face again.

"I'll talk to Primrose," he says and my shoulders slump as relief courses through me.

"Thank you, I… that means a lot to me." He nods again, and I move towards the exit. But I look back before I open the door. "Could, um, could you maybe not mention to her that I spoke to you, Mr Mellark?"

"Peeta," he says quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

He laughs softly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and ducking his head. "Mr Mellark is my father. I'm Peeta."

"Oh. I, um, thank you, Peeta. It, um, it was nice to meet you." My voice sounds weird and breathy; I cringe. He smiles broadly, and I tuck out of the store before I can make myself look any more idiotic.

When Prim jumps in the car after her next class at the college she's practically vibrating with excitement. "Katniss, guess what?" Without waiting for a reaction she continues. "Mr Mellark says that he thinks I'm really talented and that the mark I got on my last project 'doesn't reflect my abilities'." She says the last part in an affected voice, clearly quoting the professor. I grin. "So he said I can do an extra credit project, and he'll even show me how to use the design program if I can meet him before class on Wednesday."

"That's great, Prim. I knew you'd work it out," I tell her and she beams.

"So can you bring me over to the college tonight? The computer labs are open until 10, and I have to work on that project." I glance over at the microwave clock, it's 7:30, I worked a 3 hour breakfast shift at the diner before tearing over to my 'real' job, leading tours and doing paperwork for the state park. I've been on my feet for more than 14 hours already, and there's still dishes to wash, floors to vacuum, laundry to fold. But it's not like I can say no.

"Is that your extra credit project?" She's met up with Mr Mellark twice before class, and has come away both times brimming with excitement over how much she's learned. "You can't do your project on your laptop?" She shakes her head, picking at her cuticles. Another habit we share.

"The program I have to use, it, uh, well it would be better to use it in the labs." She's hedging, trying not to tell me something. I groan.

"Spit it out, Prim." Her smile drops.

"It's just, well the program, it doesn't work very well on my laptop." Of course the obscenely expensive software I had to buy won't work on the old second-hand laptop that was all I could afford to get for Prim. "That's why I had so much trouble before," she admits. "I couldn't do half the stuff until Mr Mellark showed me how the program was supposed to work." Oh. I guess I should be gratified that she's actually fairly good at this graphic design stuff after all, but mostly I just feel like an ass, again.

The computer lab at the college is not what I was expecting. A dozen top-of-the-line computers sit on long polished wood tables, with comfortable chairs set in front of them. I watch Prim work for a while, marvelling at how with a few clicks she makes magic on the screen. But it's been a long day, and a long week, and I can't resist laying my head down on my arm, just for a minute.

Apparently a minute turns out to be more than an hour and a half. When Prim gently shakes me awake I have a line of drool snaking down my cheek and my eyes are heavy, blurry. At first I think it's that bleariness that's causing the hallucination regarding me with a gentle mirth. But no, Mr Mellark,Peeta, is sitting beside my sister, and it's clear from his amused expression that he's been there long enough to have seen me slobbering and snoring on the desk. Great.

Prim talks a mile a minute at Peeta as she gathers her things, and I try to avoid looking at him. He's even more impossibly handsome tonight in a button down shirt and slacks instead of a bakery tee. He smiles and nods politely at her, but I catch him sneaking glances at me more than once, and I rub my eyes self-consciously. Twice I encounter the hottest man on the planet and both times I look like an idiot.

Peeta locks the lab door behind us as we leave, and escorts us out of the building. Prim snatches my keys and runs across the parking lot, I'm too tired to chase her so I follow along slowly. Peeta walks beside me. "She's doing much better now," he says quietly, and despite my discomfort I smile.

"Thanks to you. I, um, really appreciate all of the help you've given her." He grimaces slightly.

"Actually, it turns out it might have been my subpar teaching after all," he laughs ruefully, and I stop in my tracks, horrified. He stops too, turning to face me.

"No," I tell him, "I really didn't mean that, Peeta." A surprised little smile tugs at his lips when I say his name, as if he thought I'd forgotten it. As if I ever could. "You've been amazing with her, she's learned so much."

He nods, "but I wasn't paying enough attention, I didn't see that she was having technical issues, and I should have." He's silent for a minute, scuffing the gravel surface of the parking lot with his sneaker. Then he continues. "I'm teaching this class as part of my student teaching requirement for the masters degree I'm taking in art education. And between my course load at school and this place and the bakery, well, I guess I wasn't giving anything my full attention." When he looks up again he locks those blue eyes with my own. As if I could have forgotten how mesmerizing they are. "I should thank you, for pointing out my shortcomings. You probably saved my grade too." I stare at him, searching for any sign that he's making fun of me, but he looks completely sincere.

"I know a little about having too many things on your plate," I admit. I feel bad for this guy who's probably just as exhausted as I am, yet he's here, late, helping my little sister again. "I'm sorry I was so rude to you about it." He shakes his head.

"If I hadn't dismissed your email…" I reach out and squeeze his arm, stopping his self-degradation in it's tracks.

"Katniss," he breathes, and I realize it's the first time I've ever heard my name pass his lips. It sounds so much lovelier on his tongue. "I know we had a bit of a rocky start, but I'd really like to take you out some time, get to know you…"

As incredible as that sounds, I know I have zero time for dating. And even if I did, I'm never going to fall in love, so it would be cruel to let anyone think any differently. "I, uh, I don't date," I tell him. But his soft smile doesn't falter.

"Do you eat?" I scowl at him.

"Of course I eat." I only narrowly resist the urge to add 'duh'. Clearly I'm spending far too much time in the company of a certain 15 year old.

"Then eat with me sometime. As friends."

"I'm not very good at friends," I admit, but he shakes his head.

"I think you're wrong about that. I already like you."

"You don't know me," I protest, and he smirks.

"Then let me get to know you. I promised Prim I'd help her some more, I already have the software on my laptop at the bakery. How about if you both join me there on Saturday evening? I'll cook for you." Somewhere in the distance the wheezy horn of my old Corolla blares as I look up into the twinkling blue eyes of the most fascinating and infuriating man I've ever met.

And though a refusal is on my tongue I find myself instead saying, "Okay."

He pushes my messy braid off my shoulder. "You'll allow it?" And I laugh.

"I'll allow it."