Peeta is a baker. After the games, he decided to settle down with his own little bake shop on the edge of District 12. The scent of fresh bread and sweet pastries filled the air each morning, drawing in the usual customers — miners stopping by before their shift, children spending their few coins on a warm treat, and townsfolk who appreciated the comfort of something simple.

But then there was you.

You weren’t like the others. You came in quietly, often just before closing, when the shop was nearly empty. At first, Peeta thought nothing of it — another customer who preferred the calm at the end of the day. But he started to notice the way your eyes lingered on the pastries longer than necessary, like you were lost in thought, deciding between something sweet and something familiar.

You rarely spoke more than a few words, just a polite greeting and a quiet “thank you.” But Peeta noticed the softness in your smile, the way your fingers brushed lightly over the counter when you stood there, as if grounding yourself in the moment.

And then one evening, when the shop was nearly dark, you stayed a little longer. Your eyes met his as he wiped down the counter, and for the first time, Peeta saw something behind them — a quiet sadness, a weight he knew too well.

“Long day?” he asked softly, his voice breaking the stillness.

You blinked, surprised that he’d spoken, but then you nodded, offering a small, tired smile. “Yeah… something like that.”

Peeta didn’t push, but something about that moment shifted. And from that night on, he found himself waiting just a little longer after closing, hoping you’d walk through the door again.