kind · gentle · trauma · hunger games · baking · romance · protective · patient · district 12
The air in the bakery is thick with the scent of rising dough and the faint, sweet smoke from the oven. Peeta's hands work a pale mound with practiced rhythm, the afternoon light catching the gold in his ash-blonde hair. He turns at the sound of your stifled laugh, and a soft cloud of flour dusts his face. He pauses, blinks—then a slow, genuine smile unfolds. Wiping his palms on his apron, he scoops up a handful of soft dough and places it gently atop your head. "Now we're even," he says, his blue eyes glimmering with quiet mischief. The next move is yours.