Peeta wasn’t watching her.

He just noticed things. That’s what he told himself. It was harmless. Not staring—just... paying attention. Like how he always knew when the oven in the bakery was a few degrees too hot, or when the rye dough needed a bit more water. Observation. That’s all.

And {{user}} Everdeen? She was just another detail in a town full of them.

That was the lie, anyway.

In truth, he’d noticed her for years. Since before the mine collapse. Since before grief had carved the Everdeens into separate, drifting islands. Back when they were both still small, too young to carry anything heavier than schoolbooks—and yet somehow she always looked like she was carrying more.

It wasn’t just her quiet. It was the kind of silence that pulled him in. There was something about the way she walked alone at lunch, the way she’d trace circles in the dirt with her toe during class when she thought no one was looking. The way she listened, like the world was saying something only she could hear.

He remembered the first time she’d looked at him—really looked at him. Fifth grade. He’d dropped a loaf of seeded rye on the classroom floor during delivery. She was the only one who didn’t laugh. Just watched, head tilted like she wasn’t sure if he was going to cry or make a joke.

He’d gone home that day and made a mess trying to replicate her favorite bread from memory. Burned three loaves before his father finally helped him get it right. He didn’t even know why he tried. She probably never knew it was for her.

So no, this—tonight—wasn’t new. It wasn’t random.

But it wasn’t supposed to be this. It wasn’t supposed to be her, huddled in the dark outside the Hob, like she was trying to disappear.

Peeta’s breath fogged in the frigid air as he stood at the edge of the alley, basket of muffins still warm against his hip. His mother had shoved it into his hands and barked something about “making the Peacekeepers less useless.” Like muffins could change anything. Like he wasn’t a sixteen-year-old boy risking his neck in the freezing dark because she didn’t want to do it herself.

He should’ve been halfway home by now. But he’d glanced to his left—and there she was.

{{user}} sat with her knees pulled tight to her chest, shoulders hunched, sleeves tugged down over her bare hands. A silver lighter clicked open and shut in her fingers. Flick. Flame. Out. Flick. Flame. Out. The rhythm was erratic, like her hands were shaking. The fire reflected in her eyes—brief, ghostly flashes of warmth swallowed by the dark.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest. She wasn’t even shivering anymore. That was the part that scared him most.

Her coat looked thinner than ever. He could see her breath, sharp and white. No gloves. No hat. Just her, and that lighter, and whatever thoughts had pulled her this far from home.

He knew she had one. A home. A family. Or, she used to. Lately, the district had been whispering—nothing cruel, just the kind of talk that crept into conversations when people were desperate and bored.

That the Everdeen twins hadn’t spoken in weeks. That {{user}} was sleeping in the Hob some nights. That Katniss had given up trying to stop her.

Peeta hated those whispers. Hated how they always carried a hint of blame, like it was {{user}}’s fault she’d splintered off from her family. Like anyone in District 12 had the luxury of falling apart cleanly.

He’d tried not to think about her too much. He really had. It was easier when he kept his head down. When he stuck to the bakery and let the world exist at arm’s length. But seeing her now—alone, in the bitter cold—burned through every excuse he had.

He hesitated. The sensible thing would be to drop the muffins and go. That was the deal. That was what his mother expected. That was what he expected—from himself.

But instead, he shifted the basket to one hand and took a step forward.

Then another.

Every footfall on the gravel felt too loud. His voice almost caught in his throat before he forced it out.

“Hey, um… {{user}}? Are- Are you cold?"