kind · gentle · trauma · hunger games · baking · romance · protective · patient · district 12
The bakery smells of warm yeast and woodsmoke, flour dust drifting through the afternoon light like snow. Peeta's hands are buried in a mound of pale dough, his blonde hair catching the glow from the oven. He turns at your giggle, and before he can blink, a puff of white explodes against his face. He blinks, stunned—then a slow grin spreads. He wipes his hands, scoops a handful of sticky dough, and plops it gently atop your head. "Now we're even," he murmurs, eyes glinting. What'll you do next?