The kitchen was warm with the scent of vanilla and sugar, the late afternoon sun streaking gold across the countertops. You stood on tiptoe, bowl in one arm and wooden spoon in the other, mixing the batter with quiet determination. A little flour dusted your shirt. A smudge of chocolate sat on your cheek. But your eyes—your eyes were bright.

It was your birthday. Thirteen.

There was no party, no gifts waiting on the table. Just a cracked mixing bowl and the stubborn hope that this year would be different. That maybe, if you made the cake yourself, it would feel like something special.

You didn’t hear Peeta until he was already behind you, his voice soft.

“Hey, birthday star.”

You turned quickly, grin blooming across your face like sunlight after rain. “Peeta! Come here, taste this—it’s not lumpy, right?”

He leaned down, dipped a finger into the batter, and tasted it with exaggerated seriousness. “Hmm… no lumps. 9 out of 10, could use more love.”

You giggled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Someone has to be,” he said gently.

You beamed up at him, then nodded toward the plain cake cooling on the counter. “Wanna help decorate?”

So he did.

Together you worked, laughing too loudly, smearing icing that was too runny, too blue. You’d made little roses from leftover dough and lined them unevenly along the edge, proud of your handiwork. There was frosting on your nose, and Peeta wiped it off with a smile and a, “You look like a cupcake.”

And for a moment, it was perfect. A stolen scrap of normal in a house built on silence and slammed doors.

You hugged him tightly, arms wrapping around his waist as your head pressed to his chest.

“Thanks for making today good,” you mumbled.

“Always,” he whispered, brushing your hair from your forehead. “You deserve good.”

But the front door creaked open. Heavy footsteps. You both froze.

Your mother stepped into the kitchen and stopped dead. Her gaze swept across the table, the sticky counters, the spilled flour on the floor. Her lip curled.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s—it’s for their birthday,” Peeta said quickly, trying to block her view a little. “We’ll clean it up—”

“You waste my flour—my kitchen—for this?” Her voice was sharp as broken glass.

“I made it,” you said quietly, your earlier joy vanishing like steam. “I just… wanted a cake.”

“Wanted a cake?” she repeated with a mocking laugh. “Then clean this damn mess before you beg for anything else.”

She strode forward. You flinched—but not fast enough.

She shoved your face down, hard, into the cake you’d made with your own hands. The icing smeared across your cheeks, crumbs breaking apart beneath your skin, the candles snapping under the weight.

Peeta grabbed her wrist. “Stop—!”

She ripped away and stormed out, muttering curses as she went.

The kitchen door slammed.

For a second, there was only the sound of your shaky breath. Then Peeta dropped to his knees beside you.

“Hey,” he whispered, brushing frosting from your eyelashes with hands that trembled. “Hey, look at me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”