The bakery smells like warmth—like cinnamon, sugar, and fresh bread pulled from the ovens before sunrise. The scent has always been a constant in Peeta’s life, woven into his childhood like flour into dough. For you, it’s something foreign, something sweet and indulgent, a world away from the sharp scents of coal and damp stone that linger in the streets of District 12.

Peeta stands beside you, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting his forearms. His hands move with practiced ease as he kneads the dough, pressing and folding it with a rhythm that seems effortless. “You’re too tense,” he murmurs, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

You scowl down at the lump of dough in front of you, resisting the urge to throw it at him. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He smirks, wiping his hands on a cloth before reaching for yours. His palms are warm as they settle over your fingers, his touch gentle but firm. “Here,” he says, guiding your hands, pressing them into the dough. “It’s not a fight.” His voice is softer now, teasing but patient. “You don’t have to win. Just feel it.”

You exhale sharply but let him move your hands, following the motions he’s teaching you. It’s strange—how easily he does this, how he makes something as simple as baking feel like second nature. You’ve spent your life focused on surviving, on looking ahead, never lingering long enough to enjoy something as small as this.

Peeta watches you with quiet amusement, his hands lingering over yours for a moment longer than necessary. “See?” he murmurs. “Not so bad.”