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The Meadow was a sea of waist-high grass, swaying in a rhythmic, golden dance that seemed to mimic the easy breathing of the earth. In the distance, the skeletal remains of the old District 12 were being swallowed by vines and wildflowers, a slow reclamation by nature that Katniss Everdeen found deeply satisfying. But closer to the house, inside the kitchen that smelled perpetually of yeast and sunset-orange marmalade, a different kind of struggle was unfolding. It was a battle of wills, and for the first time in her life, the Girl on Fire was losing.
Katniss sat at the heavy oak table, her hands calloused from the bowstring but currently fidgeting with a linen napkin. Across from her sat their daughter, Willow, who had her mother’s dark, stubborn braid and her father’s piercing blue eyes. Next to her was little Rye, a toddler with a mop of blond curls and the grey, stormy eyes of the Seam. Between them sat two bowls of a hearty vegetable stew—carrots, potatoes, and wild greens that Katniss had gathered herself from the woods that morning.
Neither child had moved a spoon in ten minutes.
"It’s good for you," Katniss said, her voice dropping into that low, husky register she used when she was trying to be patient. "The greens make you strong. They help you run faster in the Meadow."
Willow looked at a piece of kale as if it were a poisonous nightlock berry. "It’s... textured," she whispered, a word she had clearly picked up from one of Effie’s rare, flamboyant visits. "And the carrots are touching the potatoes."
Katniss felt a familiar, frantic twitch in her jaw. She looked toward the oven, where Peeta was humming to himself, sliding a tray of something heavenly-smelling onto a cooling rack.
"Peeta," Katniss called out, a note of desperation creeping in. "Help."
Peeta wiped his hands on his flour-dusted apron and turned around. He looked at the untouched stew and then at the defiant set of his daughter’s shoulders. He leaned against the counter, a faint, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"They won’t eat it," Katniss hissed. "They say the food is... textured."
Peeta walked over, his prosthetic leg making a soft, rhythmic clink-thud on the wooden floor—a sound that usually brought Katniss peace, but today felt like the ticking of a clock in a televised arena. He ruffled Rye’s hair and leaned over Willow’s shoulder.
"Textured, huh?" Peeta asked.
"It’s slimy, Papa," Rye chirped, emboldened by his father’s presence.
Katniss felt a surge of genuine bewilderment. "Slimy? It’s a broth! Do you have any idea—" She stopped herself, the words what we would have given for this dying in her throat. She never said those things. She and Peeta had made a silent pact: the children would play on the graveyard, but they would not be haunted by it. Not yet.
But the concept of picky eating was a foreign language to Katniss. In her youth, hunger was a constant, sharp-toothed animal that lived in her stomach. She had eaten bark, charred squirrel brains, and groosling fat without a second thought. To her, food was fuel; it was the difference between Prim having the strength to walk to school or fading away in a bed of grey sheets. Even Peeta, who had grown up in the relative comfort of the bakery, had known the sting of his mother’s wooden spoon for "wasting" even a burnt crust.
"I don't understand it," Katniss said, looking at Peeta. "How can they not want to eat? They’re... they’re full. They’re actually full enough to have opinions."
Peeta caught her eye, his expression softening. He knew exactly where her mind was going. He saw the way her hand instinctively went to the spot on her belt where her knife used to hang. He moved behind her, placing his warm, solid hands on her shoulders.
"It’s a luxury, Katniss," he murmured, leaning down so only she could hear. "It’s a sign that we did our job. They don’t have the 'hunger' because we took it away. It’s frustrating, but it’s a victory. Real or not real?"
Katniss let out a long, shaky breath. "Real."
But the victory didn't help the stew get eaten. Rye began to push his bowl away, the ceramic sliding dangerously close to the edge of the table.
"If you eat five bites of the stew," Peeta announced, raising his voice for the children, "I might be persuaded to reveal what’s on the cooling rack."
The children’s heads snapped toward the counter. The scent had finally reached them—the sharp, savory tang of melted goat cheese and the buttery, yeasty warmth of fresh bread.
"Cheese buns?" Willow asked, her eyes widening.
"Maybe," Peeta teased. "And perhaps a few of those blackberry tarts I was working on. The ones with the honey glaze?"
Katniss felt her own mouth water. Peeta’s cheese buns were her greatest weakness, a culinary tether that could pull her out of the darkest flashback. She knew the children inherited that from her. They would bypass a feast of roasted meat for a single one of their father’s desserts.
"Ten bites," Katniss bargained, her competitive streak flaring up.
"Six," Willow countered.
"Eight," Katniss said firmly. "And the carrots have to be included."
A tense silence followed. Willow looked at her father. Peeta gave a solemn nod. With the gravity of a peace treaty being signed, the children picked up their spoons. Katniss watched them eat, her heart doing a strange little somersault. It was infuriating to watch them gag slightly over a piece of perfectly good spinach, but it was also a miracle. They weren't eating because they had to; they were eating because they were being bribed with love and sugar.
Once the bowls were sufficiently cleared, Peeta set the tray of cheese buns in the center of the table. They were golden-brown, the cheese bubbling and slightly charred at the edges, exactly the way Katniss liked them.
"You too, Katniss," Peeta said, sliding a bun onto her plate. "I saw you eyeing the tarts."
"I was not," she lied, already reaching for the bread. She tore it open, the steam rising in a fragrant cloud. She took a bite and closed her eyes. "Fine. You win. They’re better than the stew."
"I used the wild herbs you found," Peeta said, sitting down with them. "The ones from near the stream. They add a bit of earthiness to the cheese."
They sat together in the fading afternoon light, the four of them. To an outsider, it was a mundane scene: a family bickering over dinner and rewarding themselves with dessert. But to Katniss, every crumb on the table was a defiance.
"Mama?" Rye asked, his face smeared with blackberry juice from a tart he’d swiped when Peeta wasn't looking. "Why do you eat the bread so fast? Like someone’s going to take it?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Peeta’s hand stilled on his napkin. Katniss looked down at her half-eaten bun. Her thumb was pressed hard into the soft dough, a reflexive grip born of years of never knowing when the next meal would come.
She looked at her son, seeing the innocence in his gray eyes—eyes that had never seen the inside of a Justice Building or the bottom of a ravine. She looked at Peeta, who was watching her with that steady, unwavering support that had saved her a thousand times over.
"Because your father is the best baker in Panem," Katniss said, her voice clear and true. "And I don't want to miss a single bite."
Peeta smiled, reaching across the table to take her hand. His fingers were sticky with honey, but she didn't pull away. She squeezed back, feeling the strength in his grip.
"Next time," Peeta said to the children, "we’ll try a different tactic. Maybe we’ll make the stew look like a map of the woods. If you eat the 'forest,' you get to the 'hidden treasure' of the bakery."
"Can the treasure be the chocolate drops?" Willow asked.
"We’ll see," Peeta laughed.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, purple shadows across the Meadow, Katniss realized that she would never truly understand "picky eating." The ghost of the girl who hunted to keep her sister alive would always live somewhere inside her, marveling at the abundance of their lives. But as she watched Peeta wipe a smudge of flour off Willow’s nose, and as she listened to the sounds of her children laughing over the last blackberry tart, she decided she didn't need to understand it.
She just needed to protect it.
Later that night, after the children were tucked into their beds—their stomachs full of vegetables they’d barely tolerated and bread they’d adored—Katniss and Peeta stood on the back porch. The air was cool, smelling of damp grass and the fading scent of woodsmoke.
"I felt like a failure today," Katniss admitted, leaning her head against Peeta’s shoulder. "Seeing them push that food away... it makes me feel like I haven't taught them how to survive."
"Katniss," Peeta said softly, turning her to face him. "They don't need to be survivors. Not the way we were. That was the whole point of the war. We fought so they could be picky. We fought so they could be difficult and demanding and... safe."
"I know," she whispered. "It’s just hard to turn off the part of me that’s always looking for the next meal."
"Then don't turn it off," Peeta said, kissing her forehead. "Just use it to appreciate how far we’ve come. And if it helps, I’ll make the stew with a little more cheese next time. I think I can hide the 'texture' if I bake it into a crust."
Katniss let out a dry, short laugh. "You’d turn a salad into a pastry if you could."
"If it keeps the peace in this house? Absolutely," he said, pulling her into an embrace.
They stood there for a long time, Peeta and Katniss Everdeen, looking out at the Meadow. It was quiet now, the graveyard silent beneath the grass. Inside, their children slept, blissfully unaware of the cost of their dinner, dreaming of sunset-colored buns and a world that had plenty to spare. It was a strange, complicated peace, but as Katniss closed her eyes and listened to the steady beat of Peeta’s heart, she knew it was the only victory that mattered.