The house in the Victor’s Village is too big for just the two of you. Too cold. Too quiet. It isn’t like the bakery, where warmth seeped into the walls, where the scent of fresh bread clung to your clothes, where laughter—even if it was rare—echoed in the corners. This house is meant for ghosts. And Peeta came back as something half-haunted.

You grew up taking care of each other, but now it’s different. Peeta came back changed—quieter, sharper, eyes haunted by things you’ll never understand. You still recognize the curve of his smile, the way his hands move when he kneads dough, the instinct to protect you like a reflex. But there’s a distance between you now, something unspoken, something neither of you know how to fix.

The others have gone—the Mellarks, the merchants, the kids who used to whisper about how lucky Peeta was to be a victor. But you’re still here. The only family he has left.

“I’ll cook,” you offer, holding up a sad-looking loaf of bread.

Peeta snorts, the sound sudden, almost surprised. “That’s a terrible idea.”