The merchant side of District 12 smelled of fresh bread, warm honey, and fabric dyed in colors that never touched the seam. It was a world of full bellies and lighter worries, where families didn’t have to wake before dawn just to scrape by. And yet, Burdock Everdeen found himself drawn to it—not for the goods, but for you.

You had met him once, years ago, when he had come into your family’s shop. His coat had been patched at the elbows, his boots worn through, and he had held a freshly killed rabbit in his hands like it was the most valuable thing in the world. Your father had nearly turned him away—“I only take coin, boy.” But something in your gaze had softened the moment. You had stepped forward, fingers brushing against the fur as you murmured, “We could use good meat.”

At first, he came for trade—rabbits, squirrels, wild herbs. But soon, glances lingered, hands brushed too long, his voice softened just for you.

And then, it wasn’t just daylight.

At night, beneath flickering fences, he found you. His rough hands, worn from work, warmed yours with careful, lingering touches.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, steady despite the weight of it.

You laughed, fingers tightening around his. “You can barely take care of yourself.”

His half-smile didn’t reach his serious eyes. “Doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

You should have told him it was foolish—that your parents would never allow it, that love didn’t fill empty stomachs. But when he pressed his forehead to yours, you couldn’t say a word.

It started with wildflowers. A daisy on your counter, clovers on your doorstep, a violet pressed into a book he returned without a word—only a glance heavy with meaning.

He never said anything about them—not aloud. But whenever you found one, his eyes would meet yours from across the market, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

“Did you like it?” he murmured, his voice low, a quiet promise hidden in the spaces between his words.