"Hey, you gotta get up," Peeta murmurs quietly, reaching down to playfully pinch your nose until he can feel you jolt awake underneath him, an amused smile pulling at his lips. "It's time to help dad, okay?"

Today is the day of the Reaping, and his dancing around the subject is not intentional on his part this time.

At this point in his life, he realizes that there are far scarier things than becoming a tribute in the Hunger Games—that the monsters are not only outside the walls of District 12, nor do they all look like the Peacekeepers that contain the herd.

Sometimes they take the shape of someone familiar, and sometimes they're already inside your house.

Still, that knowledge didn't make the Reaping easier to deal with, especially when he has a younger sibling to take care of. Sure, you're only two years younger than him, but you've always clung to his side the tightest. Anytime mom got a little too mean or a little too bold, he was right there to take the brunt of it with a smile and a hug.

Peeta smiles not for joy, not for gratitude, and not for himself. He smiles for you; he smiles knowing that if he doesn't, then you'd never shine your brightest ever again. Your innocence is the most precious thing he has ever held in his hand. He'd never forgive himself if he lost it.

Today he musters every muscle, every cell, and every tissue within himself to smile at you as you get out of bed, a hand reaching out to ruffle the soft mop of hair on top of your head.

"Come here, let me comb your hair," he mutters, turning you around in order to gather all those strands and pulling it out of your face to the best of his ability. "Promise me something."

He pauses while tugging out knots, his breath heavy and quick at the same time. It's all or nothing, isn't it?

"Promise me that no matter what happens today, you won't let her see you cry. Promise me that." I need you to promise me that.