A/N: hi! Sorry I didn't post when I said I would! Hurricane Milton blew through here and phew lemme tell you, I've lived here in Florida all my life, I've been through Cat 1-5 storms, BUT I have NEVER been through a Cat 1 hurricane by myself in my apartment. And I will never be doing that again :D it was terrifying! I did lose power (boo) but they turned it on so fast- if you or someone you know works with a power company plz tell them I love them. Now I just have to wait for my wifi company to fix their internet lol. Currently writing using my phones hotspot.
This chapter was so sad/bittersweet to write I almost teared up a lil writing it. A LOT of the ideas came to me when I was editing it, so a lot of this is new. I LOVE angsty stories and slow burns (even tho this one isn't really much of a slow burn) so expect more of that PLUS a lot of Everlark fluff and smut LOL
I will be writing a new story probably within the next couple months as I write this one. It will DEFINITELY be a super slow burn so if youre into that... I got u.
Fanfic Rec: Terror and Healing by Panskiss123 - this author is the REASON I fell in love with fanfic. I would only recommend reading it if you dont mind very triggering topics and smut. First chapter is a bit heavy to read, but after that it's SUCH a good story.
To myreviewer LAtoNE09: I hope both sides of ur pillow is cold every night forever. You're SO sweet :') and I am so so glad you're loving my story so much that you've read it TWICE now! So, for being so amazing and always writing the best reviews, this chapter is dedicated to u : )
Thank you all who have followed and reviewed so far! please keep it up! It makes me write faster ;)
3 - MrsVela99
A gentle nudge against my shoulder and the soft brush of fingers sweeping hair from my forehead pulls me from sleep. I instinctively reach out to pull Katniss closer, but all I find is empty space. My arms tighten around myself, and my eyes fly open in confusion. I follow the hand that woke me, up her arm, squinting to focus on her face. Of course, she'd slipped out of my grasp – the ever-silent, agile huntress, never one to be pinned down. She offers me a small smile, tilting her head toward the kitchen.
"Dinner's ready. I didn't want to eat without you," she says softly.
I sit up, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes as she walks back to the kitchen. Moments later, she returns with a bowl, placing it in my hands. I blink, still adjusting to the harshness of the lights, and almost fumble the bowl, barely catching it in time. Inside, a savory blend of greens, chicken, squash, carrots, and onions steams invitingly. The aroma is intoxicating, making my stomach tighten with hunger.
I wait for her to sit beside me with her own bowl before taking a bite. The flavors burst on my tongue—the chicken perfectly seasoned, the greens with just the right kick of red pepper flakes, the vegetables sautéed in oil until they're tender, but still with a satisfying crunch. It's comforting, in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Then, she presents me with a cheese bun.
It's not my cheese bun, though. The shape is odd—lumpy and slightly overbrowned, clearly baked by her hands. I can't help but smile at the thought. I lean over, teasingly grabbing her wrist, and take a playful bite, the cheese oozing from the center. She pulls away with a surprised laugh, creating a long, gooey string of cheese between us.
"Ooh!" she giggles, twirling the cheese string and dropping it into her mouth.
It doesn't taste like mine. Hers is more buttery, doughier. Somehow, I think I like it better than mine. I watch her take a bite of the same bun before returning to her chicken, her cheeks puffing out as she chews. She looks like a chipmunk, and for a fleeting moment, I smile.
But the lightness doesn't last. The memory of what happened earlier slams into me, drowning out the pleasant warmth. The embarrassment of my panic attack tightens in my chest, knotting my stomach. I slow my chewing, the taste suddenly dull in my mouth. My fork hovers over the bowl, then drops, and I stare down into the mix of food as if the colors might distract me from the crushing shame.
When I was a kid, these panic attacks didn't come often. Back then, they only happened when I'd done something wrong—or worse, when I knew I hadn't done enough and was just waiting for my mother to find out. I scrubbed floors, cleaned my room, took out the trash every night, set and cleared the dinner table like clockwork. But one small oversight—a patch of unswept dirt, a dish left in the sink—was all it took to bring her wrath down on me.
She didn't need much to punish me. She'd threaten to pull me out of wrestling, forbid me from spending time with my father in the bakery—sometimes, she didn't even need words. A smack to the head with whatever was closest, a broom handle, a frying pan, her fist. As a kid, it happened occasionally, but as I got older, my responsibilities grew. So did my fear. I was bigger than her, but that didn't matter. The gut-wrenching panic that came with realizing I'd forgotten something small—just one thing—paralyzed me. It wasn't the physical pain that scared me. It was the helplessness, the sickening scramble for excuses to explain away the bruises, the broken dishes, anything that might give her an excuse to hurt me again.
The pitying glances from others in District 12, they were worse. Abuse wasn't uncommon, but those looks… they made you feel less than human. Just an object of sympathy.
When the attacks started, my body would betray me, just like it does now. I'd shake. Tremble. But if she ever caught me panicking, she'd sneer at me. Call me weak. Pathetic. Worthless. And, after a while, I started to believe her. Each attack came with a wave of self-loathing. Why couldn't I just be stronger? Why couldn't I stop feeling like this?
After the war, it got worse. The dissociation started, and for a long time, I thought I was losing my mind. My mother's voice would echo in my head, louder than ever. Each attack just reinforced what she'd said. Weak. Pathetic. And now, after what happened earlier, I wonder if Katniss is thinking the same thing.
I swallow hard, pushing the food around in my bowl with my fork, the guilt and shame gnawing at me.
The only thing that seemed to pull me out of my spiral was the sight of her chipmunk cheek, puffed out with a mouthful of food. A thought crossed my mind, hesitant at first but growing bolder.Why would she stay? Why cook dinner and calm me down if she thought anything remotely close to what my mother thought of me?
That realization, as small as it was, shifted something inside me. My mood lightened as I watched Katniss—a girl so clumsy with her fork, so unaware of the impact she had on me. Her presence made me feel… normal. Warm. Like my panic attacks were just a part of who I was, not something to be ashamed of. And the best part? I didn't need her to tell me any of that. Not that she would anyway—Katniss isn't much for words.
I picked up another bite of food and glanced over at her, letting my eyes linger on her unguarded, unpretentious way of chewing with her mouth open, staring off into space. A piece of food tumbled from her fork, landing squarely on her shirt. Without missing a beat, she picked it up and popped it back into her mouth, completely unbothered. All things my mother would've beaten me or my brothers for. But Katniss? She was nothing like her. She was… an absolute goddess. A goddess of heart and soul.
And a goddess who had cheese stuck to her mouth.
Smiling, I shook off my stiffness and reached over to wipe the stray cheese from her lips. I tucked it into my napkin, and she blushed, her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. We sat in silence after that, the only sounds between us were the occasional clinking of forks against bowls or the quiet clearing of throats. The soft pattering of rain from the window I had opened a few minutes ago filled the air, lulling me into a calm, almost drowsy state. I watched her as she stared at the window, her face lighting up when a flash of heat lightning streaked across the sky.
After we finished dinner, we settled on the couch, each taking our own side but tangling our legs together in the middle. I rubbed her calf absently, my eyes drifting shut, when a sudden bolt of lightning crashed somewhere out in the Meadow. The sharp sound jolted us both, but Katniss… she jumped as if something inside her snapped, nearly hitting me in the crotch in her panic.
I flinched at the near miss, but what hit me harder was the look on her face—sheer terror. I knew, just by the way her body coiled into itself, arms wrapping tight around her knees, that she was back in the Games. That lightning, for her, was a trigger. I watched as she squeezed her eyes shut, her breaths coming out shallow and uneven.
This could be a chance to ask her something—something about herself. I knew she wasn't much of a talker, but I had to try. I'd spent enough time wondering about her, trying to piece together the parts she kept hidden. The deep parts, the scars she never talked about.
I cleared my throat, hoping to pull her out of the storm in her mind. She opened her eyes and looked at me, raising an eyebrow in question. "Does… does the lightning bring back memories for you?" I asked softly. Her legs tensed under my hands, but she didn't pull away as I gently tugged her back toward me. I started to rub her feet, trying to soothe her into talking.
Katniss sighed, leaning on her elbow and resting her head in her hand, her eyes falling to my hands as I worked. She opened her mouth to answer, but then bit her lip, rolling her eyes as if debating whether to say anything. I could see the tears forming, the way she struggled to hold herself together, but the cracks were showing.
"The lightning tree, from my second Games," she finally murmured, her voice distant. "We were supposed to electrocute the Careers on the beach, but we were in the forest. I don't think any of us realized how close they actually were. The plan went to hell."
She was far away now, lost in the memory. I could see that look in her eyes—the one I knew too well. She was reliving it.
"I remember," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "when you shot your arrow. Finnick was calling you. They had split the screen, showing different angles—the Careers following you, Johanna stumbling through the woods after being hit with something. And you… tying the wire around your arrowhead. Finnick was running toward you, and then… the screen went black. What happened after you shot it?"
Her back arched slightly as she stretched, her feet pushing deeper into my lap. I kept rubbing, trying to keep the tension in my hands from reaching her. She was quiet for a beat, then I heard her take a slow, deliberate breath.
"The sky—well, the dome—started to break," she said, her voice soft but steady. "It was symbolic, in a way. Watching the Capitol's world crumble. Snow had told me their system was fragile, that it could be brought down by something as simple as a handful of berries, or a single arrow. And then, there it was—breaking right in front of me. The steel beams snapped, electricity bursting everywhere, and more pieces of the arena started falling apart."
Her eyes clouded over again, her voice trailing off. "I remember the hovercraft coming in. I thought I was dead… or dying. I thought they were coming to collect my body. I didn't know who had brought me in, or why. I just knew when I woke up, I wasn't in the arena anymore. It was Haymitch and Plutarch who had me. But everything before that… it felt like a blur, like I wasn't really there."
She turned to look at me then, her eyes glistening, on the verge of spilling over. My hands stilled, resting on her legs. I knew she might ask me about the bombing. About my scars. Part of me expected it, dreaded it. But before she could, her brow furrowed like she was about to ask, I quickly jumped in.
"Did you guys go to District 13 after that?" I blurted, desperate to steer the conversation away from my own pain.
She snorted, wiping her eyes and crossing her arms. "What is this, Hunger Games twenty questions? My turn to askyousomething," she said, giving me a playful pinch with her toes, teasing the tension out of the air. I tensed in response, my heart pounding, waiting for her to drop her question on me.
She paused, studying me like she was searching through some mental filing cabinet, trying to find just the right question.
"What was your dad like?" she asked, so quietly that if the rain hadn't slowed, I might've missed it.
My breath caught in my throat. My stomach dropped. Of all the things she could've asked… this was the last thing I wanted to talk about. I drew in a sharp breath, feeling her eyes on me, waiting.
I didn't hate talking about him. In fact, I loved to brag about his kindness, his little gestures that made the world feel lighter. But Katniss knew that. She knew him, even if only in passing, since it was usually Gale who did the trading while she stood watch from a distance. It made it easier somehow to talk about him now.
"My dad…" I laughed a little to myself, feeling warmth spread through me at the memory. "He was probably the kindest man I ever knew. He always loved trading with you and Gale. He'd hand me the squirrel and joke that you always hit it right in the eye, same spot every time."
Katniss let out a small breath through her nose, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smile. It faltered slightly, and I regretted bringing up Gale, but that smile—no matter how brief—gave me the courage to keep going.
"He never yelled," I said, leaning back against the couch, "unless my brothers were wreaking havoc in the kitchen. He always baked one more than he needed to, just in case someone needed a little pick-me-up."
"A baker's dozen," Katniss murmured, her fingers absentmindedly stroking my ankle.
"Yeah," I chuckled softly. "He taught me everything. Cakes, cheese buns, pies, breads, cookies, cupcakes—if it could be baked, he had a recipe for it in his head. People liked to tell me I looked like him when he was younger. Some of the older ladies would remind me of that all the time." I shuddered playfully, earning a small laugh from Katniss. "He was dedicated to his bakery, to his family. So I guess it didn't surprise me when he went up in flames with it."
The words fell out before I could stop them. Morbid, blunt, even for me. I blinked, suddenly aware of how dark that sounded. I rolled my eyes at myself, a nervous attempt to brush it off. "Sorry," I muttered, pulling my knees to my chest. Katniss's feet slid off my lap as I shifted.
"It's okay," she said quietly, mirroring my posture, drawing her knees up to herself. "What was his name? I only ever knew him as Mr. Mellark."
"Bran," I said after a pause, the name sitting strangely on my tongue, like it didn't quite belong to me anymore. "Yeah, another bread name. Bran Mellark."
I hadn't said my father's name out loud in so long, and now it felt foreign, like a memory I couldn't quite touch. When was I going to stop this constant cycle of grief? When would I finally make peace with his death?
It felt like a wheel that never stopped turning—some days I was okay, accepting that he was gone. Other days, I was angry at him for not listening to me, for not getting out in time. There were days I felt guilty for surviving when he hadn't, and then there were moments I'd convince myself he went quickly, without pain. But it always circled back. Dr. Aurelius said it was normal, that grief wasn't linear. He promised acceptance would come one day.
But when?
Katniss had lost her father long before I lost mine, and I wondered if she knew the answer. Did she know what it took to find that elusive peace, or was she still searching for it too?
"Do… do you still think about your father?" I asked tentatively, my voice barely above a whisper. As soon as the words left my mouth, I worried I'd push her into a spiral.
She nodded slowly, her eyes distant. "I do. His death threw everything into chaos—our routine, our ability to survive. Every time I went into the woods after he died, all I could think about was him. The sounds, the smells, even the feel of the wind… it all reminded me of him. It was exhausting. It wasn't until after you threw me the bread that I built up enough courage to go in and actually hunt. After a while, it started to feel… calming, I guess. Like he was still there with me. The wind, the leaves brushing against my face—they didn't make me grieve him anymore. I felt him around me, protecting me, guiding me."
I listened carefully, hoping to find some kind of answer in her words. Something that would help me figure out how to cope with my father's death. But it didn't come. A nagging thought tugged at me, urging me to go back to the bakery where it once stood, but I wasn't sure if I could handle it.
"So… do you think you've accepted his death?" I asked, finally reaching the question I truly wanted to ask.
Katniss looked at me, her expression soft but knowing. "Acceptance? That's not real, Peeta. Dr. Aurelius tried that with me, too." I felt a blush creep up my neck, embarrassed she saw right through me. "You don't accept it. You learn to live with it. You learn it's okay to cry, to miss them, to want their hugs or hear their voice. The people we love never really leave us. My father's still with me, even though I can't see him."
I took in her words, letting them sit for a moment. Then, despite the knot in my chest, I found myself laughing softly. "And you say you're terrible at talking, Ms. Everdeen."
She rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips as she watched me. I stared into her gray eyes, replaying her words over and over in my head. And before I could stop myself, a surge of courage rushed through me, and I exhaled sharply.
"I think I want to go to the bakery. To see it. I want… I want to feel their presence there, too."
Katniss leaned over, her hand slipping into mine, a steady warmth. "Then you will go. I'll go with you, if you want."
Her strength radiated through her touch, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the thought of my family didn't twist my heart into a painful knot. We sat there in silence for a while, the rain fading outside, the wind blowing through the window. I stood to close it, my gaze drifting out toward the road that led to what was once my home.
What I didn't realize was that when Katniss said I would go, she meant right now.
Before I knew it, we were walking into town, the cold night wrapping around us like a blanket. The streetlamps cast soft glows on the pavement, and the cicadas filled the air with their song. Everything felt sharp—the dirt kicking up under our shoes, the wind brushing my skin. Things seemed both louder and quieter all at once. It wasn't until the cicadas stopped that I noticed just how eerie the town could be at night.
We talked along the way, the tension between us dissolving into lighter conversation. I complimented her on dinner and the cheese buns, though I refused to admit hers were better than mine. No way I'd give her that satisfaction.
My unease showed in my quickened steps, so Katniss started sharing stories to distract me. She told me about the first time she met Buttercup, how he looked like a filthy, half-eared disaster. She laughed, telling me how she had tried to drown the poor thing before drying him off when she realized Prim would never forgive her. I stared at her, wide-eyed with shock, but she just grinned. Apparently, she'd scrubbed him clean and handed him to Prim, who babied him for days, gossiping to the cat like he was a school friend.
"I'm pretty sure he heard her first swear word," Katniss said with a smirk, glancing down as we walked.
I admired how she spoke about Prim now, with a bravery I could only dream of having. She let herself smile at the memories, embracing them instead of running. It made me wonder if I could ever do the same. We understood different parts of Prim, but together, through our stories, we kept her memory whole.
We crossed the bridge and turned down the street, and there it was—the building that had been blocking the view of the bakery's ashes. I froze in the middle of the road, the smile that had been lingering from Katniss's stories fading as dread filled my chest. My courage, the little bit I had, disappeared entirely.
Katniss squeezed my hand, her strength unwavering. I looked at her, hoping that maybe her courage would be enough for both of us, because mine had vanished. She cupped my cheek, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my lips.
"You can do this, Peeta. You're going to be okay."
We walked further, and when I finally came face to face with the empty lot, everything flooded back to me. The wind whipped through the open space where the bakery once stood, now nothing more than charred ruins and broken memories. I made my way to where the stair railing had been, the only remnant a hole in the concrete.
"I used to chain my bike right here," I said softly, my voice almost lost in the breeze. "My brothers and I would go out every Saturday night after we cleaned up the bakery. Sundays, we didn't open, so we'd stay out as late as we could." Katniss stood nearby, wrapped in the hoodie I'd given her, watching me with those steady gray eyes.
"My friends had all their birthday parties here at the bakery. It was big enough to host a crowd. And it helped that Dad and I didn't have to carry a cake half a mile," I added with a faint smile. "We never dropped a single one." The memory of those moments with my father—working side by side, perfecting our craft—sent a warmth through me, even in the cold night air.
I stepped over to the left, where another building still stood tall. "There used to be an alley here," I said, pointing to the space between. "My brother and I would wrestle out front or upstairs, and if we got too rough, I'd come here to cool off. I'd dip my fingers in a puddle and draw on the brick."
As I walked toward the back of the lot, the fence that once enclosed the pig pen came into view—broken, battered, and charred, but still standing. Katniss followed closely behind, silent but present. I stopped where the porch had been. The porch where my mother hit me for burning two loaves of bread. I pointed into the night.
"You can't see it now, but… I know exactly where that apple tree stood. The one I saw you under." I turned to Katniss, my voice thick with emotion. "I've never been prouder of myself than I was that day. I knew what I was doing, and I have no regrets."
Her gasp echoed in the still air, and I saw her eyes glisten as I tried to laugh, but it caught in my throat.
My mind filled with images of the bakery. The warm walls, the wooden floors, the glass case that once held my father's and my creations. The laughter, the smells, the warmth—all of it came rushing back, almost too vividly. I remembered something rare then, something I hadn't thought about in years.
"My mother…" I swallowed hard, blinking back the tears. "I know you never saw this side of her, but… I remember her hugging me. Right here, in this window, congratulating me for getting a hundred on a test I studied so hard for. She put the paper in the window next to a cake we decorated together to celebrate." My lip trembled as I tried to steady myself.
Katniss stood a few paces behind, silent but offering me her strength. I looked back at her, silently asking for space. She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself, and I knew she understood. I needed to face this alone.
Slowly, I made my way to where the stairs had been, crossing over the threshold into the bakery. My eyes traced the walls that weren't there anymore, the floor that had long since crumbled to dirt. But in my mind, everything returned to how it once was. The counter, the kitchen door, the framed pictures on the wall of bakers who came before my father. He told me once that my picture would go up there after his. But we never had the chance.
And then, just as quickly as the vision had come, it shattered. The warmth was gone, replaced by the cold, empty lot, the smell of ash and earth filling my nose. My shoulders began to shake, and before I could stop myself, I collapsed to my knees. I sobbed into the dirt, pressing my forehead into the ground as the memories overwhelmed me. I wanted it all back. The bakery. My family. I pounded the earth with my fists, crying out for the past that would never return.
I needed Katniss.
And as if she'd known, she was there, kneeling beside me, her hand rubbing my back as my sobs wracked my body. It all hurt—the memories, the loss. My lungs burned, my head pounded. I started to hyperventilate, the cries turning into choking sounds.
"Peeta, lean back. You need to put your head between your knees, or you're going to pass out," Katniss instructed, her hands pushing at my shoulders gently.
I tried to sit back on my feet, but I lost my balance and ended up on my back, the impact knocking the wind out of me. I gasped for air, panic gripping me as I struggled to breathe. Katniss took my hand, her brows furrowed with worry. She pressed her fingers into my palm, tracing the lines, trying to calm me like she had earlier. She kissed my dirt-covered hands, her face smudged with filth.
"Peeta, tell me something you hear," she said softly.
I forced myself to focus, listening to the world around me. "The leaves," I managed to whisper.
"Good," she said, her voice gentle. "Now tell me something you feel."
"Y-your hands," I replied, clinging to the sensation.
"Something you taste?"
I grimaced. "Dinner. From earlier."
She smiled slightly. "Something you see."
I looked around, feeling the weight of it all again. "The dirt… the bakery used to sit on."
"And something you smell?" she asked quietly.
I take a slow inhale, trying to identify the smell. It was a phantom smell, because there was no way I could actually be smelling it. "My fathers favorite bread."
Katniss doesn't move her face from mine, she cocks her head. "Which one was that?"
"Pita bread."
She grabs the back of my neck and rubs it gently, smearing the sweat around and covering my neck in sweat. "Oh, Peeta," she moves my arm and wraps herself around me. "You're going to be okay, Peeta. Your father is here with you, he's always going to be. Just keep thinking about all the great things he has taught you. Create the things he once created, and you'll never feel alone."
I wrapped my arms around Katniss, holding on tightly. The neighborhood was quiet, but I knew we had drawn some eyes, neighbors peering from their windows, curious about the man who had just poured his heart into the dirt. For a few minutes, we stayed like that, wrapped in each other's arms. When I finally stood, Katniss gave me space, walking slowly off the lot. I stayed behind, letting my eyes roam over the ruins one last time.
"Hi, Dad," I said quietly. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come talk. I knew I wouldn't handle it well." I paused, my throat tightening. "I miss you guys. I miss Rye's jokes and Zach's useless facts. I miss your warm hugs and those early mornings, just us in the bakery." I swallowed, feeling a fresh wave of sadness rising. "I miss Mom, too. Her way with customers, and that rare laugh she had when she was really happy, when she was with me."
I kicked a rock at my feet, watching it tumble through the dirt. "I'm sorry I didn't try harder to get you all out. I should've. I could've dragged you out. But I know I can't keep thinking like that." My voice trembled as I forced out the words. "Should have, would have, could have... they're dangerous, especially when you're lost in grief."
I glanced toward Katniss, who was waiting for me by the sidewalk, giving me time to finish. "Someone really special told me that to feel you with me, I should create the things you once created. So, I'm gonna try, Dad. Not just for you or for me... but for her, too."
My voice dropped to a whisper, one that felt like it could carry to wherever my father might be. "You remember Katniss? We're... together, sort of. I actually talked to her, just like you told me I would one day. She's amazing in every way. You were right about that scowl, though. It's even worse when you're on the receiving end." I let out a small laugh, a flicker of warmth cutting through the heaviness.
Standing a little straighter, I looked around one last time, taking in the quiet emptiness that had once been my home. "I promise, Dad, I'm gonna make you proud, wherever you are."
With that, I turned on my heel and made my way to Katniss, ready to leave the past behind but carrying its lessons with me.
We made our way back to my apartment in silence, both of us too drained to speak. The weight of the day clung to us as we wiped ourselves down with a washcloth in the cramped bathroom, stripping off our dirty clothes. I peeled off my hoodie and joggers, the cool air from the open window brushing against my skin. I climbed into bed, exhausted, and Katniss followed soon after, wearing one of my T-shirts and her panties. If I hadn't been so emotionally spent, I might've reached for her—might've gotten lost in her touch, in her quiet moans, if she'd let me. But instead, I lay on my side, facing away from her, feeling her arms wrap around my chest, her cheek resting gently against my back.
Her fingertips traced slow, lazy patterns across my skin, but soon they stilled, her hand pressing lightly against my chest as her breathing evened out. She was asleep. I stayed awake, bracing myself for the nightmares I knew would come.
But when I finally drifted into sleep, I didn't find the usual horrors. Instead, I found myself in the bakery, just as it had been—warm, familiar. The walls were lined with framed photos of the bakers who came before me, their eyes watching over me. My great-great-grandfather, who built the bakery with his own hands before the Games ever existed. His three sons, standing outside, their aprons dusted in flour from head to toe. My father had told me about the flour wars they used to have, the kind that left their mother fuming but their father roaring with laughter. The next picture was of my dad and my grandfather, who looked a lot like Zach—same blue-green eyes, same sandy blond hair.
As I continued down the wall, I saw images of my brothers and me. Some of these memories weren't even framed in real life, just ones I had in my head. One photo showed Rye and me, locked in a wrestling match, both of us smirking in determination. We looked so alike back then. But as I reached the end of the wall, a picture faded into view—one I didn't recognize. It was of a man who looked like me, holding a baby, no more than a year old. The baby's face was familiar, but not from the bakery. It wasn't smiling; instead, a small scowl twisted its features, a scowl I knew all too well.
I stepped closer, lifting the frame from the wall, and that's when I noticed something else. A hand rested on the man's shoulder, barely visible, but unmistakable.
It dawned on me that this baby was mine and who ever owned the arms in the picture. But these aren't just any woman's arms. They were arms that I knew all too well. The very arms that were holding me close.
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