*3 Years Later*

As the sun begins to paint the sky into a warm rainbow of hues in the western sky, I flip the sign to signify that the shop is closed before turning to my employees who are already tidying the place up.

"Alright, everything almost ready?"

"Yes, sir!"

At this point, I simply chuckle to myself at all three teens' — even Rice who, unlike Gordian and Marcia, originally came from Eleven — simultaneous exclamations of the honorific. You can take someone out of District Two, but you can't take District Two out of them. I've long given up trying to tell kids from that district that they don't have to refer to me as "sir" but, as demonstrated, it's gotten to the point that their habits have been involuntarily adopted by their non-Two peers; granted, it's just as fair considering that their speech is starting to be affected by our drawls and twangs.

Besides the building we're in, one major difference is between this bakery and the old one is that I've taken to hiring help. With the increase in population, there's not just been an increase in patronage — it's amazing the appetites soldiers have — but also a pool of people who can help out with the increased workload. In the morning, most of my workers are those with baking experience to do some of the more complex pieces. However, the later shift consists of kids who are still in school; more often than not, they're either the children of workers who moved here during the rebuilding period or family members of soldiers now stationed at Camp Artemis. I get a few helping hands, and they get experience with pay; win-win.

In this case, these kids get to help with something very important.

After sweeping the floor, cleaning the counter, storing away the leftovers, and drawing the curtains shut, they bring out some candles to set at key points before lighting them.

"Great job everyone, and just in time," I chirp while glancing at the clock. "I think she's going to be here any moment now. So you all best skedaddle."

However, on the heels of my suggestion, I give a pointed glance to the storage cabinets. It earns a matching set of grins from them as they grab as many pastries and cookies as they are able to carry before making a mad rush out the door.

"Happy spring!" I call out to their retreating backs.

"You too, sir!"

As I shut the front door, the back one opens while being accompanied by an amused query: "What's with your helpers? I come up the street and see them bolting from here as if there's a boar inside."

"Well, there's just someone here who's not too far off the mark." My nonchalant statement earns Katniss' trademark scowl, but there's no missing the smile tugging at her lips, which I return in full as I approach her for a kiss. Upon parting, I ask, "How's work?"

Katniss emits a tired sigh before going on a rant about the current issues in opening up part of the forest to allow tapping for maple syrup. Despite the fact that there's no small amount of fatigue in her rambling, I don't miss the enthusiasm and pride she has in her work.

It was actually way back during our first trip to Four that Katniss discovered her calling. During some idle chitchat with our escorts — nice folks… even if it took a while to get over the whole "Capitol Labs" part — we found out their community has something called a conservation department, which really piqued her interest the more she learned about it. A couple years and no small amount of research later — the community was happy to loan as much material as possible for said research — Katniss helped found Panem's first local conservation department created after the Rebellion.

Besides the fact that I'm proud of her, have I mentioned how good she looks in that uniform?

It's around now that Katniss notices the candles set up, and probably notices the distinct smell of bread reaching completion. "You really aren't pulling any punches with this, are you." While her tone is light, I can tell that her demeanor gains a level of apprehension.

"You know me," I state with a smile. "But are you truly ready for this? I don't want to rush anything."

If anything, my words appear to steel her resolve and she gives a firm nod. "I want this."

I can't help it that my smile grows almost to the breaking point before I lean in for another kiss.

Without any further delay, I go to the oven — the open-flame one provided by Neo-Phoenicia; I don't normally use it for this kind of bread, but all things considered, keeping it operational is appropriate for the occasion — to check on the progress of things; a thump signifies that the bread's ready, and I take it out to set down on the counter. As a light trail of steam wafts up to fill the air with a yeasty aroma tinged with nuts and raisins, Katniss' eyes widen with realization likely meeting memory.

All I can do is shrug at that and murmur, "Just thought it seemed right."

Her response is almost inaudible, but I still catch it: "It is. Thank you."

I slice off the end of the loaf, and hand the knife to Katniss for her to slice that piece in half before we skewer our respective halves. The whole time, and despite all that has happened, it occurs to me just as to how blessed I am.

And so, with bread in hand, the two of us make our way back to the fiery hearth with the knowledge that we'll be facing whatever comes our way together.

The End