Chapter Text
She smiled as Peeta set a slice of nutty bread onto a tin plate, sliding it toward Prim before settling beside her to help with her homework.
Math is hard, Katniss knows that much. She tried to help Prim but numbers had never mattered to her beyond what kept them alive: counting arrows, weighing game, making sure every trade left her with more than she could not afford to lose. Anything beyond that she never really cared to learn beyond passing the tests.
So she watched, something softer in her chest, as Peeta leaned over the table and showed Prim how to find x. Prim pouted, muttering in that frustrated little way of hers, and Peeta smiled—then winced when the movement pulls at his still-healing split lip. Katniss felt that wince like it’s her own.
She still blamed herself for it. If she had not been so impatient—if she had only waited for Peeta in one of the abandoned houses in the Victor’s Village like they always did—his mother would never have seen them in the back of the bakery. Katniss had run the moment Peeta told her to, but she had not even reached the Seam before something in her chest pulled tight and turned her around.
She went back and it was a good thing she did. She was certain the witch would have killed him that day. The rolling pin came down again and again, each strike harder than the last, and there had been blood—so much blood—everywhere. Katniss did not know where she found the strength, only that suddenly she was there, shoving the woman back with everything she had and hauling Peeta up, dragging him away toward the Seam.
People saw them, she knew they did. They saw the blood, saw the state he was in, but no one stepped forward offered to help. For a moment, it felt like she was eleven again—cold, starving, invisible to everyone but Peeta. Except this time, it was Peeta who needed saving and she needed to be stronger. She had burst through her door half out of her mind, shouting for her mother, her voice breaking as she tried to explain. After that, everything blurred into frantic hands and hurried movements, her mother taking over while Katniss hovered uselessly at the edges.
It was only days later that she learned what had happened after she dragged Peeta away—that the woman had burned half her face on the oven in the struggle. Katniss had braced herself for retaliation, for accusations, for Peacekeepers at their door. She had been ready to face it, because whatever damage had been done to that woman was nothing compared to what she had done to Peeta.
But the Peacekeepers never came, the witch did not report her to Cray and when Katniss returned to Town for her usual trades, Mr. Cartwright had only looked at her and smiled, as though in approval, and slipped a pair of shoelaces on her bag. Even the Marches gave her more bandages than she asked for. She would have normally declined, not wanting to owe these people anything but she knew it was not for her. It was for Peeta who are beloved in Town even though not one of them ever tried to help him.
She smiled as she looked at the two people she knew she loved and looked outside. That was when she saw Gale’s lanky form a few steps from their porch and Katniss hurried out, tugging her father’s hunting jacket tighter around her torso. “What is it?”
Gale didn’t answer right away, his gaze flicked past her, toward the open window. From where she stood, she could see Prim bent over her book, Peeta’s blond head close to hers.
Gale frowned. “You’re really going to let that Townie stay in your house?”
Katniss scowled. “Watch your tone.”
He snorted, eyes raking toward the door. “Look at the size of him. He’ll eat you out onto the street in no time.”
“Actually,” she shot back, chin lifting, “he just made nutty loaf out of tesserae grain. So, we’ll be fine.”
Gale’s brows drew together. “Tesserae grain doesn’t rise, Katniss. You can only make flatbread.”
Her chest puffed pride sharp and sudden. “Well, he just did.”
She almost enjoys the way his frown deepened but Gale step closer, crowding her space. His voice drops. “It’s still dangerous. You don’t know him, Catnip.”
Katniss laughed—short and incredulous. Oh Gale, not even Prim knew me as much as Peeta does. “I knew him even before I knew you, Peeta Mellark is the kindest person I know. We’ll be fine.”
“You’re so naive.”
Her eyes flashed. “I haven’t been naive since I was eleven. My mother welcomed him, I don’t know why you think your opinion matters here.”
Something shifted in Gale’s expression—something hot and ugly as he sneered. “Don’t come running to me when he tries to murder you in your sleep.”
She snorted. “I won’t.”
He turned, stalking away, and he spat a sharp, “Good!”
Only when he’s gone did she let herself breathe. Gale has always been harsh in his words, especially when it comes to people from Town, she normally doesn’t mind him but today it digs under her skin in a way she can’t shake. She walked back slowly, schooling her expression, steadying her breath, before getting back inside their little house.
“Katniss! I figured it out!” Prim beams, waving her pencil like a victory flag.
Katniss can’t help the small smile that tugs at her mouth.
“Peeta’s much better at explaining these things,” Prim goes on. “You should replace Mr. Ledger.”
Peeta laughed—and immediately curled in on himself, his arm tightening slightly around his ribs. Even after three weeks, the injury still lingers. Katniss’s jaw tightens. If she ever sees that witch again—!
She cuts the thought off. “Thank Peeta by acing your test tomorrow,” she says instead.
Prim’s face falls, dramatic as ever. Katniss turned toward the hearth—their small cooking place, blackened with soot—and checked the remaining tea. There was still enough for two cups: one for that night, another for the next morning. She set it carefully over the coals to warm, already knowing she would have to gather more willow bark before school tomorrow.
When it’s ready, she brought it to him. “Your tea,” she said, placing it in front of him, unable to stop herself from raking her fingers among his soft curls, still wondering why her fingers barely snag any tangles.
Peeta looked up at her, taking her hands and kissing her palm making her face hot. “Thanks.” He takes a sip and grimaced at the bitterness but he still continued to drink it.
She was just tucking a small pouch of soap shavings into her satchel—what her mother would later render into a new bar for bathing—when Sae hollered at her from behind her stall. Katniss hesitated, glancing once toward the exit that would lead her back home. The early cusp of winter had settled in her bones; her fingers were stiff, her hunt had been abysmal, and all she wanted was to go back home where it is warm.
But Sae called again and with a reluctant sigh, she turned back, dragging her feet across the packed dirt floor of the Hob. The old woman was already serving a bowl of thin stew to some scrawny man clutching his trade, her movements brisk despite her age. When Sae spotted Katniss, she broke into a gummy smile.
“I heard that boy of yours finally had his Seam cherry popped!”
Katniss frowned. “What?”
Sae cackled—sharp and wheezing, the kind of sound that made Katniss’s teeth ache. “My grandson saw him leaving the Justice Building with a cart.”
For a moment, the room tilted. Katniss’s vision blurred at the edges. She couldn’t breathe properly. She thought, distantly, that she had fainted but then the feeling passed, leaving her still upright, still staring at Sae as the old woman ladled stew into greasy bowls like what she said was nothing at all.
Katniss didn’t even say goodbye, she was already moving out of the Hob into the early winter wind that cut straight through her jacket. She ran without thinking, breath tearing at her throat, boots slipping slightly on frozen dirt. There had been no talk of tesserae between them, but she thought that there had been an understanding there—an unspoken line that he wouldn’t take any. They had one Reaping left, after that, they would age out. She does not need more slips with Peeta’s name added on the bowl, with their luck, they could both still be Reaped anyway.
She pulled her father’s hunting jacket tighter around her shoulders and forced herself to move faster. When she reached home, she saw sacks of flour and oil mocking her. Her first instinct was fury—hot and immediate. She wanted to march in, tell him to haul it all back to the Justice Building, to erase his name from the ledger. His oldest brother worked there; surely there was a way.
But then she saw him. Peeta was at the table, grinding grain in her mother’s too-small mortar, working carefully as he always did. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if he expected her anger already. There was fear in his eyes as if he was expecting her to fly off the handle like his mother surely would. Peeta told her that taking tesserae grain is considered the height of shame in Town, second only to running off in the Seam. People still do it of course, because life in District 12 is hard even for the Merchants, but they do it in secret.
The anger loosened its grip. She never wanted to see Peeta cowering in front of her.
“What are you baking?” she asked instead.
The calm tone in her voice was enough, his shoulders eased almost instantly. Peeta looked up, and there it was—relief and gratitude. He smiled at her like he always did, like nothing in the world had ever been sharp enough to cut him.
“I’m going to bake a few batches of loaves,” he said. “Then take them to the Hob tomorrow.”
Katniss nodded, even though her heart is still beating so fast, even though her hands were clammy with nerves and the instinct to cry was there she tried to keep herself calm. They talked then, she always found Peeta so easy to talk to. Their conversation shifted naturally toward the bread. They began discussing how much each loaf should cost, eventually agreeing that smaller loaves would be better since most people in the Seam would not be able to afford full ones. That led Peeta to suggest selling slices as well, which would make the bread more accessible to those with even less to spare.
Since they were both still in school, Peeta could not set up a stall of his own during the day. He said he would ask Sae to sell the bread for them.
“We could split it fifty-fifty,” he said, as though it were the most reasonable arrangement.
Katniss shook her head almost as soon as Peeta finished speaking. “No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “You are not doing fifty-fifty, it should be at least thirty-seventy, in your favor. You’re the one providing the labor and the ingredients, so there is no reason you should settle for less.”
Peeta frowned slightly, clearly uncertain. “I do not think Sae will agree to that,” he replied. “She knows how the Hob works better than we do, and she is not the type to give up that much profit without a fight.”
“I will handle Sae,” Katniss said, her tone leaving little room for argument. “You just focus on the bread. She listens when there is something at stake, and I know exactly what to say to her.”
Peeta studied her for a moment, still unconvinced, but he did not press the issue further. “If you’re sure,” he said at last, though there was still a trace of doubt in his voice.
“I am,” Katniss answered without hesitation. Then, after a brief pause, she added, “Sae is smart, Peeta—you are competition now. She will know that if she refuses, I will stop trading with her altogether. I will not bring her any more game. I will bring it to you instead, and you can use it for your pies. People will come for that. You have no idea how important bread is in the Seam. Ours is just the flat kind we fry; having real loaves is almost unimaginable to us. Sae will want to partner with you instead of competing with you.”
That made Peeta blink, the realization settling in. “I hope she agrees.”
“She will.” She said confidently, with that settled, Katniss moved closer to the table. “Can I help?”
Peeta nodded and returned to the mortar, taking on the heavier task of grinding the tesserae grain. He worked steadily, crushing the coarse kernels down as much as he could, while Katniss took what he had already processed and began refining it further. She sifted the crushed grain through a rough cloth, shaking it carefully so the finest particles fell through. The coarser bits she set aside, only to pass them back to Peeta to be grounded again.
They repeated the process over and over, working in quiet rhythm, until what remained in Katniss’s hands no longer resembled rough meal, but something closer to pale, fine flour. Once the grain had been reduced to a soft, powdery consistency, Katniss transferred it into an empty sack that had once held her last tesserae ration. As she tied it off, a quiet unease settled over her.
The following year, if she was not reaped, there would be no more tesserae to rely on. She did not know if her hunting alone would be enough to sustain them. Although she was certain that Peeta would find success in selling his bread, she had no intention of depending on him to support her whole family. She would not allow him to spend what little he earned on them.
Prim was growing quickly, and the clothes that still fit Katniss no longer fit her sister. By the next winter, Prim would need a new pair of boots, and that alone would require more money than Katniss was certain she could secure.
For a brief, unwelcome moment, Katniss considered the mines. The thought sent a chill through her, and she pushed it away almost immediately. She still had a few months before she would need to face that possibility. And if she were reaped, then none of it would matter anyway.
They spent the entire afternoon refining the grain, working in steady rhythm without much need for conversation. By the time they had filled a full sack, the light outside had begun to dim, and the cold pressed more insistently against the walls of the house.
Peeta rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, the strain of the work evident in the tightness of his movements. Katniss noticed the way he tried to hide the discomfort, but it was clear enough to her. She told him that they had prepared enough for the next day, and he agreed without protest.
Peeta had found a large pot in the Hob and scrubbed it clean until the metal showed through beneath the soot. Together, they gathered coal ash from around the Seam—there was never any shortage of it—and he filled the pot halfway before setting it over the heat to warm, treating it as he would an oven.
Once it was ready, he placed the bread pans inside, burying them halfway in the hot ash so the heat pressed in from all sides. He covered them with a flat, heavy lid and piled more hot coals over the top, trapping the warmth and whatever moisture the dough could hold. It did not take long, in barely half an hour, the bread had risen. The loaves were soft inside, the crust firm and browned, a real bakery bread not the dense, flat one the Seam was used to.
It was the first time anyone had managed to make tesserae grain rise like that, and the Seam had proper bread again. Peeta did not know it, but to Katniss it felt almost like a miracle—like something sent by the distant gods her father used to speak of, the kind that could summon lightning or pull fire from the sky. Only this was quieter, humbler. Peeta Mellark had given the Seam access to cheaper bread.
The first dozen of loaf he baked and sold in front of their house was such a surprise to the Seam that it was gone in under an hour, words had spread quickly and they had a continues stream of people comeing in asking when he can make more. People were already ready to embrace him, even with his bright blond hair marking him as different from their own.
They cleaned up together, putting away the mortar, the cloth, and the remaining scraps of grain until the table was cleared. When Peeta brought in his pallet and laid it out near the fireplace, Katniss had already settled herself on the couch behind him.
This, too, had become routine. Once he sat down on his sleeping palette, Katniss moved closer and opened the small tin of mint balm, she dipped her fingers into it and reached first for his ribs, working the balm carefully along the bruised skin. Her touch was gentle and light making usre she does not put any pressure the way her mother had taught her.
She had watched her mother and Prim do this countless times—gentle hands, steady pressure, always careful not to cause more pain. Lately, though, they had been gone more often than not. The winter flu had spread through the Seam, and people were falling ill faster than they could keep up. There were nights her mother and Prim did not return until well after dark, leaving Katniss to manage what she could.
The first time she had been faced with Peeta Mellark’s bare chest, she had flushed so fiercely she could barely meet his eyes. They might have been seeing each other for more than a year but they had done nothing more than kiss and a few fumbled touches. Even now, the heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks, but she forced herself to focus, to keep her hands steady and her expression composed.
Once she finished with his ribs, she reached for more balm, rubbing it between her palms to warm it before placing her hands on his shoulders. The muscles there were tight, drawn from strain and pain, and she worked them slowly, pressing and easing the tension as she had seen done so many times before.
Peeta let out a soft breath, his shoulders loosening under her touch. A faint shiver ran through him as her fingers moved up toward his neck. “That feels… really good,” he said quietly, his voice rough with relief.
Katniss pressed her lips together, concentrating harder on what she was doing. She told herself it was only the work—the rhythm of it, the way the tension gave beneath her hands—that made her so aware of Peeta—of the breadth of his shoulders, the firmness of his muscles, and the steady warmth of his skin beneath her touch.
After she had worked the balm thoroughly into his shoulders and along the tight lines of his back, Katniss let her hands slow, her touch softening as the worst of the tension eased beneath her fingers. When she was certain she had done all she could, she leaned forward and rested her chin lightly on his shoulder.
She inhaled without thinking. He still smelled like flour, sugar, and dill, with the sharp, clean edge of mint from the balm threading through it all. It was warm and familiar, something distinctly his. He should have smelled like the Seam by now. Everyone did, eventually. Coal dust found its way into everything—into clothes, into hair, into skin—until it clung stubbornly, no matter how often you washed. It settled into you, until it became something you carried without noticing.
But Peeta had not changed. Even after weeks in their cold, cramped house, even with smoke and ash clinging to the walls and their clothes, he still carried that same scent. Flour and dill and sugar—and something else she could not quite name, something that was simply… him.
Katniss closed her eyes. She was glad for it, she did not want him to lose it, his warmth and distinct smell is one of the few things that made their bleak existence worth living. Peeta turned his head slightly toward her, careful of his ribs, and smiled when he caught her expression.
“Hey…” he said softly.
Katniss did not answer with words. Instead, she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, her eyes still closed as she felt the warmth of his skin beneath her lips.
“I missed you,” she murmured.
He let out a small, amused breath and tried to turn more fully toward her, but she kept him in place, her hands still resting lightly against his shoulders. “We’ve been living in the same house, Katniss,” he said, his voice threaded with a teasing lilt.
She huffed and poked him lightly in the side. Peeta jerked with a startled laugh—he had always been ticklish there—but the sound cut off too quickly as it turned into a low groan of pain. Katniss’s expression changed instantly. “Oh—sorry,” she said, her voice tightening with worry as her hand moved to his side, gentler now. She pressed her palm there carefully, as though she could ease the ache just by willing it away.
Guilt curled in her chest at the sound he had made.
Peeta exhaled slowly and let his eyes fall closed, the tension returning in small lines across his face before easing again.
“It’s alright,” he said quietly.
Then the door slammed open and Katniss pulled back immediately, her hands withdrawing as if burned. Prim stood in the doorway, bright-eyed and grinning.
“Ma let me catch the baby—it was so cool!” she said, practically bouncing with excitement.
Katniss quickly closed the tin, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed the lid back on. Beside her, Peeta reached for his shirt and pulled it on, turning toward Prim as though nothing unusual had happened.
“Really?” he asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. “What was it like?”
Prim launched into an eager explanation, her words tumbling over each other as she described the delivery in vivid detail—the blood, the goo and the tearing that Katniss jumped out of the couch and headed straight to their shared room with a quiet goodnight. She tried to tune them out, because even the thought of it made her lightheaded. It sounded like the worst thing imaginable, and she could not understand why anyone would choose to go through it.
The following day was a Sunday, and Katniss did not see Gale. She did not know if he was still annoyed with her, but she did not have the time or patience to deal with his moods. Her hunting was no better than the day before. She managed to collect two rabbits from her snare lines, but one had tried to escape and had mangled itself so badly that she would not be able to sell it at the Hob. That one she kept for their dinner.
She had better luck foraging. By the time she turned back toward home, her bag was filled with wild carrots, cattail, wild onions, a handful of garlic, and a scattering of rosehips. Half of her pack was taken up by things she gathered for Peeta—willow bark for tea, mint for his balm, and pine needles. She also carried a separate sack full of nuts—hickory, beech nuts, and acorns—which she was certain he could find a use for in his baking.
She intended to stop by the house first to leave behind what she would not trade before heading to the Hob. However, her steps faltered when she saw a blond head on their front porch. She knew immediately that it was not Peeta. This one was taller, broader through the shoulders, and his hair was not as soft and curly but longer, falling in loose waves that nearly reached his shoulders. He stood as soon as he noticed her approach.
He wore a beige sweater beneath a proper winter coat. Katniss’s mouth tightened at the sight. Peeta owned nothing like that. The only clothes he had were what he had been wearing when he left the bakery—tan work pants, a white shirt, and that orange sweater he favored. It was thicker than anything the Seam could offer, but even that would not be enough for the winter, not in a house like hers that never truly held warmth. Her mother had given him the two work pants that used to be her fathers, she hemed it and let the waist go a bit and it fit him, but the few shirts that Katniss had not taken for herself cannot possibly accomodate his shoulders.
As she drew closer, she noticed the way his expression shifted. His gaze was looking at her home critically, and a faint grimace pulled at his mouth.
It was a small place, barely more than a shack. There was only one bedroom, which she shared with her mother and Prim. Two beds stood inside—one larger, which had once belonged to her parents and now held both her and Prim, and a smaller one her mother used. The rest of the house was a single open space. The kitchen and living area were one and the same, centered around the fireplace where they cooked. A sagging couch sat a few steps away, and beside it was a small kitchen table that could seat four, along with a narrow sink against the wall.
It was not much—but it was safe. Safer than the bakery’s brick walls had ever been. No one here would hurt Peeta. Katniss stopped at the foot of the steps and met the man’s gaze. “Peeta isn’t going with you,” she said by way of greeting. “Not if your mother’s still at the bakery.”
He huffed, scowling at her, but he did not immediately respond.
Katniss did not wait for one. She stepped past him and pushed the door open, moving inside. She set the sack of nuts down near the entrance and placed the greens carefully into a basket. The mangled rabbit, already field-dressed, she stored in the ice box.
Behind her, she heard his loud steps as he followed her in without invitation.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“At the Hob,” she replied, keeping her voice even. She turned slightly, just enough to see the expression that crossed his face, and had to suppress the urge to smile at the clear displeasure there.
Peeta had once told her that of all the Mellark boys, Graham was the most like their mother—not in the cruelty of her hands or her voice—but in the way he looked down at the Seam. Katniss had been surprised to find him on her doorstep at all. But she also knew that Graham had always been protective of Peeta. When their mother’s temper turned, it had often been him who stepped in, taking blows that had been meant for his brother. Bruises and blood that should have been Peeta’s had, more than once, been his instead.
That had changed when he aged out of the Reaping and took work at the Justice Building, he was at work from 7am to 5pm and was unable to shield him as before especially after their father died on the 75th Hunger Games Year.
Graham’s gaze dropped to the sacks beneath the table, his expression hardening as he took them in. There was something sharp in the way he looked at them, as though the very sight offended him. “Did you tell him to take tesserae?” he asked, his voice edged with accusation.
Katniss’s head snapped toward him. “No,” she said immediately, the word leaving her like a strike. “Peeta decided that himself.” She stepped closer, anger rising fast and hot. “He’s selling bread at the Hob. He’s doing just fine without any of you. He has been for weeks.”
Graham flinched. It was small, almost imperceptible, but she saw it. For a moment, something like shame crossed his face. Katniss thought, distantly, that maybe he should feel it. This was the first time any of the Mellarks had bothered to check on Peeta, and it had taken nearly dying to prompt it. None of them had come when he was bleeding and barely conscious. None of them had asked after him.
Graham looked away briefly, his jaw tightening, but then he straightened, forcing something firmer back into place. “I want to talk to him,” he said. “Just tell me where this Hob is.”
Katniss let out a short, humorless snort.“With that attitude?” she said. “You’ll get yourself beaten before you even find him.” Her eyes flicked over him once, unimpressed. “You’re not Peeta. People don’t just like you after a single conversation. Stay here,” she added, already moving toward the door. “I’ll get him.”
She left him standing on the porch again and headed toward the Hob at a steady pace. She did not rush. There was no urgency in her steps now, not when she already knew where Peeta was and that he was safe.
When she arrived, she traded her rabbit first, exchanging it for a small amount of sugar before making her way toward Sae’s stall.
Peeta had set up his baskets of bread there, just as planned. Katniss felt a small, quiet satisfaction when she saw what remained—only one and a half loaves, and half a dozen rolls left. He had sold nearly everything.
Peeta looked up as she approached, and his face lit up immediately. “Hey, beautiful—” he called, a little too loudly.
A whistle cut through the air, followed by a chorus of jeers and laughter from nearby traders. Heat rushed to Katniss’s face. She shot a glare at the surrounding crowd before stepping closer to him, trying to ignore the attention. Peeta only smiled wider. He slipped an arm around her and drew her in at his side, pressing a quick kiss to her temple as though the entire Hob were not watching. A few weeks ago, she would have shoved him away for that. But seeing him broken and bloodied on her kicthen floor, hearing her mother question why he was even there if Katniss barely knew him—it had shifted something in her. If he had died that night, no one would have told her, no one would have understood why she mourned him. No one would have even known that she had the right to.
All the secrecy she had guarded so carefully suddenly felt foolish. She did not want that anymore. She wanted it known that Peeta Mellark mattered to her.
She was not about to start kissing him senseless in the middle of the Hob, but this—standing close, letting him hold her, their hands brushing together—this felt right.
Katniss leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Your brother’s at the house.”
Peeta stiffened. “Shit—” he muttered, then immediately winced. “Sorry.”
She almost told him that he could say whatever he wanted now, that no one here would punish him for it—but the words stayed in her throat. Instead, she watched as he moved quickly, suddenly all focus. He wrapped the remaining loaves in cloth with practiced hands, leaving the half loaf behind for Sae. The old woman gave a small nod of approval and reminded him to bring bread again before school.
“Yes,” Peeta said, a little breathless now, clearly distracted.
With that, he grabbed the basket in one hand and caught Katniss’s hand in the other, already pulling her along as he started toward home at a quick pace. They had barely made it halfway down the road when Katniss tugged on his hand.
“Wait.”
He stopped, turning back to her with a confused look. Katniss rose onto her toes and kissed him, quick but deliberate. When she pulled away, she saw the tension ease from his shoulders, just a little.
Katniss reached up and cupped his jaw, making him look at her properly.
“You’re staying with me, right?” she asked quietly.
Peeta did not hesitate. “Of course I’m staying with you.”
The answer came so easily that something in her chest loosened. She smiled, just a little, before letting her hand fall. They continued walking, though their pace slowed now, no longer hurried. By the time they reached the house, Graham was still there, standing near the porch with a deep frown etched into his face.
At the sight of Peeta, his expression changed and he looked genuinely happy, he stepped forward and opened his arms.
Katniss spoke before he could close the distance. “Mind his ribs,” she said sharply. “They still hurt.”
Graham shot her a glare, but he adjusted his movement anyway, his grip more careful as he pulled Peeta into a brief, restrained embrace.
Katniss did not linger, she stepped past them and into the house, giving them space. Normally, she and Peeta would prepare dinner together, working side by side without needing to speak much, but it couldn’t be helped. She moved through the small kitchen with practiced ease, the rabbit went into the pot, along with the wild onions, garlic, and a few of the carrots. She worked quietly, though her attention was not entirely on what her hands were doing.
She had left the door open and from where she stood, she could hear fragments of their voices—low, uneven, not quite steady.
“—took over the books and finances—”
“—not going back, sorry—”
“—to do? You can’t stay in this—this dump!”
“Graham!”
There was silence for a beat and then murmur of apologies that made her roll her eyes. By the time the two stepped back in the house her stew is already bubbling in the pot and she was putting the bread on top of the lid to heat it.
“Do you want some tea?” she asked, her voice polite despite everything.
Graham sniffed unapprovingly and then shook his head. “No.”
Katniss only shrugged at that and poured the willow bark tea she had just steeped into a cup, setting it in front of Peeta instead. “I’ve got sugar in the bag if it's too bitter,” she added, nodding toward the small pouch she had traded for earlier.
Peeta glanced at it and shook his head. “No, it’s fine. We can use it for the bread.”
Before Katniss could argue, Graham spoke again. “What kind of tea is that?”
Katniss answered quickly, almost too quickly. “It’s for pain.” She did not miss the way the guilt and shame that flickered across his face again, for a moment, she thought she also saw both pain and something quieter, something like sadness settle behind his eyes.
After a pause, he gestured toward the wooden box he had brought with him. “Where should I put his things?”
Katniss’s gaze snapped to the box, she didn’t even notice it, it ignited her curiosity but forced her expression back into something neutral. “Just put it beside the couch,” she said.
Graham frowned slightly, as though the placement did not sit well with him, but he did as she asked. The box landed with a dull thud beside the sagging cushions.
“I need to go,” he said after a moment. Peeta nodded and walked him back toward the door.
Katniss stayed where she was, though she listened without meaning to.
“—where do you sleep?” Graham asked.
Heat crept up Katniss’s neck, and she busied herself with the pot even though it no longer needed tending.
“I sleep just fine,” Peeta replied.
Graham let out a short, disbelieving sound. “You don’t even have your own room.”
There was a pause, and then Peeta’s voice sharpened in a way she rarely heard. “At least I don’t have to fear for my life here.”
Silence followed that. Then Graham again, his voice quieter but no less tense. “You’ve lost weight. Are you even eating enough? Is there even food in this house?”
Katniss’s grip tightened around the spoon in her hand. They might not have the steady, plentiful meals the town enjoyed, but Peeta was fed, he had a roof over his head and he was safe. That’s the most important thing.
Peeta must have said something along those lines, because she heard Graham let out a low groan before sighing, the sound heavy with frustration.
“I’ll figure something out,” he muttered.
A moment later, the door closed.
She turned immediately, and Peeta was already moving toward the box. They knelt beside it almost at the same time, hands quick as they opened it. Inside were neatly folded clothes. Peeta let out a soft breath as he lifted the first piece—a heavy black leather coat lined with animal fur. His expression shifted as he ran his hand over it.
“This was my dad’s,” he said. He shrugged it on, the coat slightly too large on him, the sleeves hanging just a bit past his wrists. Even so, it suited him in a way that made Katniss pause for a second longer than she meant to.
“It’s warm,” he added, almost quietly.
Beneath it were work pants, several shirts, two button-downs, and a pair of dress pants that looked nearly new. There’s a thick scarf, a leather gloves and a few pairs of socks. Peeta pulled out a sweater, this one a deep blue with a high collar. When he slipped it on, the color brought out his eyes beautifully.
He reached for another after that—a yellow one—and tried to pull it over his head but it did not go well. The fabric caught at his shoulders, then his arms, and within seconds he was stuck, half-blind and laughing under his breath.
Katniss huffed, stepping forward. “Hold still,” she said, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice as she tugged it back off him.
Once freed, Peeta laughed, breathless. “You should keep that one.”
Katniss blinked. “What? No.”
“It won’t fit me,” he said simply. “It’ll just go to waste.”
She hesitated, fingers brushing over the thick knit. It was soft—far softer than anything she owned—and clearly made well. It’s too much for her but it’s too large for Prim. Slowly, she lifted it closer, almost without thinking, and caught that unique scent that was all Peeta lingered in the fabric.
Katniss nodded once. “Fine.”
They continued sorting through the box. There were three more shirts that were too small for him. Two were so large on her that she would practically swim in them, though they were soft and comfortable enough that she did not mind. The last one was only slightly oversized.
he said, the sound of it light, almost disbelieving.
Katniss found herself smiling despite everything, drawn to the brightness in his eyes and the way his whole face seemed to open with it. There was something unguarded in his happiness, something that made him look younger, like he was finding pieces of himself he had thought were gone for good. They were only things—old clothes, worn fabric—but they were his. Proof that he had existed before all of this, that there had been something worth keeping even in a past that had hurt him.
Then he reached deeper into the box and suddenly let out a sharp, startled laugh that almost tipped into a shout. “Katniss—look,” he said, pulling out a stack of sketchpads, his voice breaking with something too close to joy.
They were not proper sketchbooks, not the kind that you can buy in the Stationary Shop. These were pieced together from bakery scraps—receipts and leftover sheets, the backs still clean, stitched carefully along one side. She could see the uneven threading, the effort it must have taken to bind them into something usable. Tucked between them were colored pencils, worn down from use, and sticks of graphite wrapped in paper.
He held them reverently.
Katniss sighed as Graham Mellark continued barking orders, insisting again that the worker make sure that the toilet was working properly and that everything functioneds exactly as it should. The way he carried on, it was a wonder none of the men he was directing had struck him already. Still, he paid them in actual coins—more than they would have earned in the mines—so they only grimaced and continued working.
Under any other circumstances, Katniss would have been the first to send him back to Town where he could keep his prissy habits to himself. But he was building them a proper toilet and a room for Peeta, and she could not bring herself to complain.
It had only been three days after his first visit when he tried again to convince Peeta to return to the bakery. He promised that things would be different this time, that Peeta would be safe. He said he had resigned from his position at the Justice Building and would take over the bakery himself.
Peeta had refused. Later, he told Katniss that his father had once made the same promises.
Graham came back again after that, still looking at their small, one-bedroom wooden house with open disdain. His nose turned up at nearly everything he saw. When he noticed the pallet Peeta carried inside each night to sleep near the fire, Katniss thought he might actually lose control. But it was the outhouse that nearly did him in. The moment he realized that Peeta had to step outside and walk several meters just to use the shared latrine, his expression tightened so sharply that Katniss half-expected him to collapse on the spot.
That was when he began speaking with her mother about converting part of the back porch into a proper room. Their house was small, but it had a wrapped around porch, her father had once planned to extend it, to build another room for her and Prim, and perhaps even a small sickroom for her mother’s patients. He had never found the time nor the means to do it.
Peeta tried to protest, but Katniss cut him off. She told him plainly that he could not keep sleeping in the living room forever. He needed a space of his own. Her mother did not need much convincing, the promise of a toilet not shared by the whole community was too tempting. The thought of not having to step out into the cold or wait for neighbors to finish using the outhouse felt almost unreal to Katniss. It was a kind of comfort she had never expected to have.
In the end, the room was small but solid. It was just large enough for a bed—an actual bed, with a headboard—a small table and a chair, nothing more. But it had two windows, and Peeta could keep them open at night, letting in the air he seemed to need to sleep properly.
Now, as the final touches were being completed, she stood inside Peeta’s new room, folding his clothes and placing them carefully into the drawers beneath the bed.
Peeta had suggested simply hanging his dress pants and button-down shirts at the foot of the bed, but she had quickly dissuaded him. Coal dust found its way into everything in the Seam, settling into fabric until it never quite came out. If he left them exposed, they would be ruined before long. He had relented easily enough.
The construction itself had taken only a week. Graham had hired four former miners—older men who could no longer work underground but still had the strength and skill for labor. They worked quickly and efficiently, and despite their initial reluctance toward Graham’s constant instructions, they completed the job with impressive speed just in time for the encroaching winter.
Katniss stood on the bed, carefully hanging the thick gray curtain over the window, when Peeta’s voice reached her from outside.
It was sharper than usual. Agitated. “—it’s unreasonable, Graham. We already turned their back porch into a bathroom and my room—”
“As if they’re not going to be the ones using it, too, once you moved. Seriously, Peeta.”
Katniss stilled, her hands tightening slightly around theshe shook her head physically, fabric. Move? Move where?
“I can sign up for the mines so I could be assigned a house—”
The words hit her like a blow. She gasped before she could stop herself, her heart lurching hard against her ribs, but Graham spoke over her before she could even think to interrupt.
“I would sign you up for the Peacekeeper Corps before I let you go into the mines!”
“That’s impossible,” Peeta replied, a faint edge of humor in his voice despite everything. “Only Capitolites and those from District 2 are allowed to be Peacekeepers, don’t be silly.”
Graham only huffed at that.
Katniss swallowed, her mind briefly snagging on the idea. She remembered Darius mentioning once that he missed the mountains of District 2, and she had always assumed that was where Peacekeepers were trained. Graham had worked at the Justice Building before resigning to take over the bakery—he likely knew more than most. Her heart thudded when she remmebers that Peacekeepers are contracted for twenty years and they will not be allowed to come home. she shook her head physically, hating the thought Graham Mellark put in her head.
“I could work there for just a year,” Peeta continued, more earnest now, “and then when I’ve saved enough, I could open my own Seam bakery!”
For a brief moment, there was silence. Then Graham laughed, and the sound made Katniss’s hands curl tightly into fists at her sides because it was not kind. “You think you can save anything while working in the mines?” he asked, his voice carrying a sharp, dismissive edge that immediately set her teeth on edge. “People die in the mines,” Graham went on, his voice hardening further, “and they wont even be able to get a fucking toilet in their house.”
Katniss felt something twist painfully in her chest, as if the words had reached inside her and pulled at something old and buried. Her father’s face came to her without warning, his features always dusted with coal that no amount of washing or scrubbing could ever fully remove, his smile wide but worn with exhaustion. Every Sunday, instead of staying home with her mother, he had gone into the woods to hunt, trying to stretch a miner’s wage into something that could actually feed them.
She had once believed he went because he loved it, because the woods called to him more than anything else. But living with Peeta had changed that understanding. Her father would have chosen to stay, would have chosen to spend his one time off for a quiet time with his family, if he had been given the chance. He had not gone to the woods because he wanted to, he had gone because he had no other choice.
Graham was right. If Peeta went to the mines, he would never be able to save anything at all. The mines would give just enough to keep him alive and take everything else in return. They would strip away his strength, his light, the easy warmth that made people turn toward him without thinking.
They would take his smile. They would take his brightness. They would take his hope.
He could not go to the mines.
She pressed her lips together and forced the emotion down, refusing to let it show even though he could not see her. Outside, Graham's voice continued, more controlled now but no less cutting.
“I don’t understand why you insist on staying here,” he said. “If you don’t want to share an apartment with mom, I can convert the office into a room for you. You would have your own space, we won’t even use the bathroom near it, it will be all yours.”
Katniss’s grip tightened slightly on the curtain as she waited for Peeta’s response.
When it came, his voice was quieter, but it carried something heavier than before. “You didn’t see her,” he said.
Katniss froze where she stood.
“She was on top of me,” Peeta continued, and there was a strain in his voice now that made Katniss’s stomach drop. “She looked… deranged. The rolling pin looked light in her hands with the way she kept bringing it down on me again and again and again.”
Katniss closed her eyes briefly, her breath unsteady.
“She meant to kill me, Graham.”
Katniss could hear more than anger in his voice, more than fear. There was something quieter, something that cut deeper than either of those. There was heartbreak there, and beneath it, a confusion that came from being hurt by someone who was supposed to care, the kind that left a question lingering no matter how much time passed.
Katniss startled at the sudden creak of the door, her hand tightening on the edge of the curtain as it slipped from her grasp. She turned sharply just as the middle Mellark brother stepped inside, another box balanced easily in his arms. For a moment, he looked just as surprised to see her there as she was to see him—but it passed quickly, replaced by that familiar, knowing grin.
“Hey, Everdeen,” Rye said, his tone light and teasing, as if he had walked into something far more interesting than a half-finished room.
He filled the doorway without trying, tall enough to rival Gale and nearly as broad as Graham, but where Peeta carried a quiet gentleness and Graham spoke with a sharp, biting edge, Rye seemed made of something looser, more careless. There was always a joke on his tongue, always a look that lingered too long. Katniss had seen him charm the workers and flirt with her older neighbors, even aim that same easy boldness at her own mother who just smiled at him, it made her stomach turn. His humor were often lewd and crude, and she made it a point to keep Prim out of earshot of his filthy mouth.
Katniss did not answer him. She turned back to the other window instead, lifting the curtain and fixing it into place with deliberate care, as though the task required her full attention. Behind her, she heard the dull thud of the box as Rye set it down beside the bed. Rye had married the grocer’s daughter, and ever since Graham had come here, he had taken to dropping off whatever stock would not keep past the month, mostly Capitol food in tin cans.
“Were you testing the bed?” Katniss turned toward him with a frown, confused at first, but Rye only lifted an eyebrow in a way that made his meaning clear.
She rolled her eyes, though heat crept up her neck despite herself. She turned away from him, busying her hands with the sheets, but she could hear the quiet chuckle he let out behind her. She could feel his gaze, too, lingering in a way that made her shoulders stiffen.
She knew that look. It was the same look people had given her ever since her relationship with Peeta had become public knowledge—measuring, questioning, wondering. Peeta was well-liked, admired even. He had always stood out even in town, not just because he is handsome and Captain of the Wrestling Team, but also because he was friendly and kind, even Seam kinds found him easy to talk to. And Katniss… well, she came from the Seam, the poorest part of the District. She was never very pretty, did not even try to. Her clothes are tattered, more often than not there are blood and dirt under her fingernails. And she is not pleasant at all.
He must think, like that dreadful girl from the apothecary who liked Peeta so much, that she bewitched him. Fed him vile concoctions that her mother made. She pulled the sheets tight, tucking them neatly along the sides of the bed as if that could ground her. When she stepped back down, Rye was so much closer that she almost bumped into him Instinctively, she took a step away but he just grinned at her as his gaze swept lazily around the room, taking in the bed, the curtains, the too-small space that suddenly felt even smaller with him looming over her.
“Well,” he drawled, “looks like you two are settling in nicely.” His tone carried just enough amusement to make it clear he meant more than he said. “More privacy and all.”
There was something off in his tone that made her narrow her eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few small foil packet, then tried to slid it in her pocket. Katniss jerked back immediately, startled enough that it slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor. Rye huffed out a laugh, clearly unbothered, and bent to pick it up. Instead of pressing it on her again, he set it on the table beside the bed.
“I know you must be excited and all but just be careful, yeah?” he said, a little more serious now. “I’m not ready yet to have little Peeta’s running around.”
Katniss’s irritation flared instantly. “Get out,” she snapped.
Rye only grinned, gave her a careless wink, and headed for the door without another word.
Katniss groaned, the sound slipping out before she could stop it, and flopped onto the bed with more force than necessary. The thick mattress gave beneath her, soft in a way she still was not used to, and for a moment she stared up at the low ceiling, wishing it would swallow her whole.
It was not as if Rye was wrong. She had slipped out more than once, quiet as she could manage, curling up beside Peeta in the dark when the cold bit too hard or the silence of her own bed felt too loud. But that had been different—private, unseen.
This—this was not.
Being called out like that, with that smug look on his face and those obvious, ridiculous assumptions—it was mortifying.
She dragged a hand over her face with another groan, she just wished with Peeta’s room finished the Mellark brother will leave them alone.
That night, her mother and Prim were called away to assist with a birth, leaving in a hurry with barely enough time to gather what they needed. Peeta managed to tuck a couple of bread rolls into her mother’s bag before they disappeared into the cold. The house felt quieter after they left.
Dinner was simple. Peeta opened one of the Capitol tins Rye had brought. It was labeled tomato soup, though it barely resembled anything Katniss would call that. She added what she could to it—wild onions, a bit of garlic, and a few of the herbs they had gathered—to give it some real flavor.
She heard Rye had told Peeta to keep the food for himself, but he shared it without hesitation. Katniss tried to protest at first, out of habit more than anything, but Peeta grew uncharacteristically firm. He pointed out that she had shared her home, her food, and her time with him without question, and he would not accept being treated differently when he could contribute something in return.
Reluctantly, she let it go. The truth was, she did not have much room to argue. The cold was settling in deeper each day, her hunting had been poor, and most of what she brought home lately was too lean to be worth much beyond broth.
Peeta, however, had found his own way to help. He was not suited for hunting—his feet seemingly finding all twigs and leaves to snap—but he had a sharp eye for plants. He could pick out useful herbs from what looked like nothing more than weeds, and he worked tirelessly, waking before dawn to bake bread to sell at the Hob. Graham had already called him back to the bakery twice to help decorate cakes and cookies, and each time Katniss made sure she went with him. She refused to leave him there alone again.
After they ate, Katniss set about heating bath water.
“You go first,” Peeta offered.
She shook her head. “No, you should. I already bathed yesterday.” He had not been idle while his room is being built, he helped when he can and he had been hard at gathering and chopping firewoods for the winter.
He hesitated, but she only gave him a pointed look. Bathing in their house had always been quick and careful, done in the kitchen with a tin tub, when Peeta came he had taken to pulling a curtain around their tin tub for what little privacy they could manage. Patients came at all hours, and there was always the risk of someone knocking at the wrong moment.
The new toilet allowed for more privacy, and the wooden tub Graham had arranged was large enough for even Peeta to actually sit comfortably. There was even a door that locked.
When Peeta finished his bath, Katniss did not give him much time to linger before she caught his hand and pulled him toward his new room. The air still carried a trace of saw-dust and clay they used to seal the room, and his hair was damp, curling more than usual at the ends.
They settled onto the bed together, the mattress dipping softly beneath their weight. Katniss lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling, while Peeta turned onto his side beside her. He propped his head on one hand, his elbow pressed into the mattress, watching her with quiet attention.
The bed was comfortable—more comfortable than anything they had ever had before. It felt almost strange beneath her, too soft compared to the thin, worn bedding they had grown used to. Katniss did not know how Graham had managed to get it into the Seam without his mother causing chaos. The thought alone made her huff quietly to herself.
Peeta followed the sound with a small smile. “I was thinking,” he began, his voice lighter now, “about getting a cast iron oven.”
She turned her head slightly toward him. “That’s not something you just find lying around.”
“I talked to one of the train attendants,” he said. “They can bring one in, but it’ll cost a lot.”
Katniss considered that for a moment before replying, “We could turn the side porch into a small bakery for you.”
Peeta shook his head immediately. “I can’t do that.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “We can.”
He only chuckled, clearly unconvinced, and shifted the conversation instead. “I was also thinking… maybe I could work in the mines for a while. Just long enough to save up—”
Katniss pushed herself up on her elbows, cutting him off with a firm shake of her head. “No.”
Peeta sighed, the sound soft but heavy with resignation, and let himself fall back onto the mattress. This time, it was her above him, her shadow falling across his face as she shifted closer, bracing her hands on either side of him.
“If you do,” she added, her tone sharpening just enough to make her point clear, “I will personally drag you back to the bakery myself.”
Peeta studied her for a moment, then let out a quiet breath, the idea already fading from his expression. After a pause, he asked, “Then what about you? What are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to the mines,” she said without hesitation. “That’s one thing my mother and I agreed on.”
“And instead?”
“I’ll apprentice with her,” Katniss replied. “I already gather most of the herbs she needs anyway.”
Peeta frowned slightly. “You don’t like blood. How is that going to work?”
“I won’t be a healer,” she said. “I’ll just help with the medicines. Gathering and preparing herbs.”
He still looked uncertain. “Katniss… I need to find a job.”
“You have one,” she countered immediately. “The bread you sell brings in more than enough.”
“I mean a real job,” he insisted. “I can’t just stay here, taking space and resources.”
She let out a small, incredulous sound. “You bring in more money than I do.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is,” she said. “You don’t need something official. My apprenticeship is a just cover for my hunting anyway.”
Peeta gave her a look. “Then I need a front for my baking too.”
That made her grin. Katniss pushed herself up fully then, shifting closer to him. “You could just stay-at-home and be handsome,” she said, her tone turning deliberately light, almost teasing.
Peeta’s eyebrows lifted at that, clearly caught off guard.
“My merchant,” she continued, leaning in just slightly, her voice softening into something more playful, “who needs to stay at home so he can remain pretty and clean.” Her fingers slipped into his hair, combing gently through the soft curls, lingering there longer than necessary. She tilted her head, studying him with a faint, knowing smile. “We wouldn’t want these perfect curls getting ruined by coal soot,” she added, her voice dropping just a little. “That would be a tragedy, don’t you think?”
She let her fingers trail lightly through his hair again, slow and deliberate this time, her smile turning just a touch more mischievous as she held his gaze.
Peeta’s mouth twitched, and she could see him trying not to laugh. “I knew it,” he said, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “You only want me for my face and body.”
That broke whatever composure she had left. Katniss laughed, the sound bright and unguarded as she nudged him lightly..“For your cheese buns, actually.”
He grinned, clearly pleased that he had managed to draw that reaction from her.
After a moment, she shook her head and looked at him more seriously. “Tell me again about the oven.”
“The cast-iron one?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “The brick one you mentioned last week.”
Recognition settled in his expression. He had told her that he wanted to make a brick oven just like the ones in the bakery. It was out of their reach, but she had not dismissed it.
“Show me how you wanted it to look,” she said.
Peeta shifted quickly, reaching across her to grab the sketches from the small table slightly crushing her, and Katniss laughed, pushing at his shoulder.
“You’re heavy!—”
That tipped his balance and he crashed into the mattress, Something slid off the table and hit the floor with a soft clatter.
“Sorry,” Peeta muttered, pushing himself upright as he crouched down to gather the fallen papers.
Katniss watched him from the bed, still smiling faintly, until he suddenly went still.
He drew in a sharp breath. Slowly, he straightened and turned toward her, holding a small silver packet between his fingers. “Katniss?” he asked, his eyes wide.
She glanced at it and shrugged lightly. “Rye left that there.”
Peeta let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cough, clearly caught off guard.
Curiosity drew Katniss closer. She shifted toward him and leaned in, studying the packet. “What is it?”
Peeta looked at her in disbelief before clearing his throat. “It is… a condom.”
“Oh.” Katniss leaned back slightly, her gaze dropping as warmth spread across her face. She knew what a condom was, of course. Her mother was a healer, and she had heard enough over the years. Still, this is the first time she had seen one like it.
“The ones I have seen were made from pig intestine,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now. “They are washed and used again.”
Peeta blinked, curiosity briefly overtaking his embarrassment. “Really?”
She nodded. “Some of the girls who go to Cray has some, my mother often tends to them.”
Katniss turned the foil packet over in her fingers, frowning slightly. It seemed small compared to what she had expected.
“So, if we use this, we would not get pregnant?” she said, more to herself than to him.
Peeta coughed again, rubbing the back of his neck. “That is the idea.”
She glanced up at him. “We do not even do anything that would lead to that.”
“No,” he agreed, though his voice had softened.
Katniss studied him then. His face was flushed, the color reaching his ears, and his blue eyes looked almost too wide, as if he was uncertain how to respond. She hesitated before speaking again. “But we could… now?”
Peeta blinked. “What?”
She shifted slightly closer, her fingers still holding the packet loosely. “We could do things,” she said carefully, choosing her words, “and not have to worry about that.”
There was a pause as he took that in. “Do you want to?” he asked quietly.
Katniss met his gaze, her expression thoughtful rather than rushed. “I think I do,” she said.