As always I can smell the bakery before I get there. It should be my father that's working this morning if I'm tracking the schedule correctly but I'm not sure which of my brother's will be on with him. I work my way around to the back door and knock carefully. I hear some talk about it being a little early for hunter's trading, and then my father opens the door and blinks a little, slightly confused and then manages a smile, "Peeta," he says, softly, and wipes his hands on his apron and moves forward instead of backward, which leads to an awkward stumbling situation and him catching me by the arms so I don't slip over, and then us both on the ground and not on the steps, but everyone is upright and nothing is spilled.

It takes me a moment, "Mom's inside not Jeemi."

He nods, solemnly.

"I should just go then. None of us will be able to talk."

He grabs my arm and holds it tightly. I wonder for half a moment if I got more strength from him or her, "You must have come all the way down here for a reason."

"Yes, and I realize now that it was a stupid one."

"Peeta-" he says, with dismay, "Don't be like that."

"How am I supposed to feel when you sneak me outside to have even half a conversation because—are you afraid of her? or ashamed of me?"

He pulls me to him then, "I've never been ashamed of you," he whispers, "Never."

I feel the hot tears welling up inside me and try to bite them back, "Could have fooled me," I pull away. Don't fall down. Don't fall down. Thank you.

"Where are you?!" The door opens and there she is. Pinched and angry.

He turns, hands up in placating gestures, automatically.

I don't know which of us she's more shocked to be looking at standing out here in the frost. My father skin reddening in the chill or me in my thick coat, bag slung over my shoulder with what I imagine are red eyes and red nose looking suspicious and guilty.

"Why are you here?"

"Now, dear," my father starts but is cut off by the glare.

"Don't worry," I shake the bag, "I came to buy. I'll be gone quickly."

"We're not open yet," she snaps.

"I thought you'd want me in and out before anyone could see," I wheedle, "Why do you think I came to this door?"

My father looks at his feet.

She steps back from the door, turning away from me in one swift motion. I climb up onto the first step and knock the snow and mud off my boots and then walk into the small room in the back where all the supplies are kept. The smell is stronger inside and it's so very warm. That was one thing we never had to worry about: freezing to death. They're making honey oat bread and plain, and there's also the scent of raisin and berry muffins that I can catch in the air, berry jam pastries.

She goes back to kneading dough on the opposite side of the room, "See to the customer then," she instructs my father.

"Come through," he says, ignoring her protest, "You know the way."

We walk into the front where the cases and ovens are. I unbutton my coat to try and ease some of the heat and see him looking at the clothes I'm wearing. He reaches to touch the fabric of the shirt and then hesitates wiping his hand on his apron again. I feel slightly embarrassed. Thanks to all the interviews we've had to do I have more clothes now than the entire household here put together probably has.

"What is it?" he asks.

"A shirt?" I can't help myself.

"I know that!" he replies, "I'm not that stupid."

"Let's just not," I tell him, "I don't want to get you in trouble for fraternizing with the dead."

He sighs and looks out of the front of the shop window for a moment.

I set the bag down on the counter and pull out the four oranges, figs and one of the boxes of dates. He picks up one of the oranges and inhales the scent, "Do you have more of these?"

"Not at the moment. How many more would you want?"

"You don't want the answer to that," he says. I think for a moment that I see her near the edge of the doorway but I'm not sure.

"I can probably get a dozen. A true dozen, not one of ours."

His lip twitches, "I can work with that."

I expected so, "I also have this," I show him the goat cheese.

"Now you're just being evil," he jokes, "What are you trying to get exactly? The whole shop?"

"It's something for her, isn't it?" her voice cuts in, "We're not making anything for her."

"I wouldn't have expected you to," I answer, "What is your problem with Katniss, exactly?"

"Peeta-" my father warns, but I am so done.

I know Katniss would only trade squirrels with him. I remember Her grumbling about things but a lot of the time I would tune her out because she would go on about so many things and as long as they weren't likely to end with the rolling pin or something else along that kind it was just easier.

"Why would I want to make something for that rude and obnoxious girl?" she asks.

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps because she's the reason District 12 has victors. You did say that to me when we left, didn't you? You were quite happy about her going then because you thought she might win. The whole District gets more to eat now because of her. You should be kind to your victors. I bet you were happy enough to make things for the return banquet."

"That was work."

"Right. Of course, she brought me back with her. You weren't counting on that. Would bleeding to death on top of the Cornucopia have been an embarrassing death or not, out of curiosity? Would it have met with your approval? I would like to know before I leave with two, actually better make that three, of the berry pastries, and a dozen of the small loaves of bread," I tell my father, "I have people to visit," she can't technically get angry with me for giving the bread away any more given I'm actually paying for it but I know it must irritate her all the same so I make sure she knows. In this case I am that petty. I remember the beatings though and the extra names in the pot.

She can't give me an answer though to any of the questions. I can see her hands twitching. She wants to go for me. I want to dare her. I know it's not wise. My father bags up things quickly and offers them to me. I leave the items on the counter. I give him a bag of chocolate pieces and some coin also to cover things and put my items in the trade bag.

"I'll be back next week with the oranges we talked about and some other things," I tell him.

He takes my arm and holds it tightly with his hand. It's a different type of squeeze than earlier.

"Me too." I answer, and walk around the counter, unlock the front door of the bakery and walk out onto the street.