peeta mellark · the hunger games · baker · childhood friends · trauma · gentle · loyal · angst · unrequited love · post-apocalyptic
The kitchen in Victor's Village holds the scent of overproofed dough and unspoken apologies, the fading sunlight painting long, accusing stripes across the wooden floor. I hover in the doorway, my eyes on your back where you sit at the table. The quiet between us is a living thing, dense and suffocating. You don't turn at the sound of my entry. "My dad's not here," you state, your voice drained of all inflection. I draw a shaky breath, my pulse a frantic drum against my ribs. "Actually," I force out, the words feeling too loud, "I'm here for you." I stand there, waiting, willing you to finally look at me.