The sun had barely begun to creep over the jagged rooftops of District 12 when Sadie Fields slipped out of bed. The pale light streaking through the warped glass of her window painted her small bedroom in muted shades of gold and gray. The morning air was already thick with the scent of coal smoke and fresh bread from the bakery next door. The reaping was only a few hours away.
Sadie yanked her nightshirt over her head and pulled on her best dress—a faded green one she only wore for weddings and the reaping. The fabric was slightly worn, the color dull from years of careful handwashing, but it was the nicest thing she owned. It clung softly to her slender frame, brushing just below her knees. Her fingers quickly combed through her auburn hair, which now only hung to her shoulders after she'd chopped it off the previous winter. It still felt strange, not having its usual weight down her back. She twisted a few loose strands behind her ears and ran her hands over her freckles, as if she could wipe them away.
She crouched at the foot of her bed and tugged on her scuffed leather boots, lacing them with nimble fingers. The soles were thin, the edges worn, but they fit perfectly, molded to the shape of her feet after years of walking the cobbled streets. With one last glance at herself in the cracked mirror, she slipped out of her room.
In the front of the shop, the smoky aroma of cured meat clung to the walls. Her father, already bustling behind the counter, glanced up at her with tired eyes and handed her a small bundle wrapped in brown parchment. The warmth of the freshly smoked pork belly seeped through the paper into her hands.
"Take this over," he said simply, his voice rough with sleep and disinterest.
Sadie nodded, balancing the bundle carefully in her arms as she slipped out the front door. The square was still quiet, save for the occasional murmur of early risers and the faint clatter of carts being pulled into the market. She walked with familiar ease, her boots barely making a sound on the uneven cobblestones. The sky was streaked with faint pinks and purples, the sun just beginning to creep over the horizon.
When she reached the Mellark Bakery, she bypassed the front and slipped through the narrow alley, pushing open the back door without knocking. The kitchen was warm with the scent of fresh bread and yeast. Graham Mellark, the eldest of the three brothers, was bent over a tray of golden-brown loaves, pulling them from the oven.
He glanced up as she entered, giving her a quick nod.
"Morning, Sadie."
"Morning," she replied softly, setting the bundle of meat on the counter. She swapped it for a basket of fresh bread, the still-warm loaves nestled into a rough cloth. It was a familiar routine, one she could do with her eyes closed.
Without a word, she walked through the bakery, moving as though she belonged there. She could have traced the path with her eyes shut—the narrow hallway, the faint scent of sugar and cinnamon lingering in the air. When she reached the front of the shop, she paused near the counter.
Rye Mellark was working the till, ringing up a purchase for an older man with a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Sadie's eyes settled on him, the way they always did. His short, blonde curls were slightly disheveled, likely from running his hands through them absentmindedly as he worked. His blue eyes flickered with disinterest at the customer, but they were still striking against his sun-warmed skin. His arms were thick with muscle from years of hauling flour and kneading dough, and the sleeves of his shirt were pushed up, revealing the strong line of his forearms.
When the customer finally left, Rye's gaze drifted to Sadie. His bored expression melted into a grin, the crooked, cheeky one that was always just for her. Without a word, he stepped around the counter and closed the space between them. He cupped her face with flour-dusted hands and kissed her, soft at first, then deeper. The faint taste of sugar lingered on his lips.
When he finally pulled back, he smirked mischievously and slipped something into the pocket of her dress. She brushed her fingers over the shape of the candy he'd tucked there. He knew she had to go back to her parents, but he leaned down and whispered against her ear, his breath warm on her skin.
"Meet me by the fountain at ten."
She smiled faintly and gave a small nod, her heart already beating faster.
Rye kissed her again, lingering for just a moment before he reluctantly turned back toward the counter.
As Sadie turned to leave, she caught sight of Peeta and Mr. Mellark emerging from the storage room. Mr. Mellark gave her a polite nod, while Peeta offered a small, shy smile. She returned the gesture before balancing the basket of bread in her arms and slipping out the door.
The sun was higher now, casting long shadows against the square. She walked back toward her family's deli, the scent of bread still clinging to her hands and the weight of Rye's candy still warm in her pocket.
The morning dragged on with a steady stream of customers. The small deli bustled with people, all hoping for one last meal before the horrors of the day. Sadie worked behind the counter, her hands moving with practiced ease as she sliced thick slabs of cured ham and layered them between slices of rye bread. She offered friendly smiles to the familiar faces of District 12, her voice soft but steady as she handed over wrapped sandwiches and parcels of smoked meat.
Her parents were busier than usual, their hands moving quickly and without pause. Reaping Day always brought a surge of business—the last indulgence for families whose children might not make it through the day. Some of the older women bought slices of salted pork, their eyes glassy with worry, while the coal miners purchased thick sandwiches they could eat with one hand, their other likely squeezing the hand of a younger sibling or child.
Sadie's hands kept moving, but her thoughts were far away—out in the square where she knew Rye was waiting. She snuck glances at the clock above the door, watching the slow, crawling hands. When it finally hit ten, she exhaled softly, relieved, and wiped her hands on the rough cloth of her apron.
"Cole!" she called to her younger brother, who had been sweeping near the front. "You're up."
Her fifteen-year-old brother grinned with youthful eagerness, glad for the chance to take over. He slipped behind the counter, rolling his shoulders like he was about to take on a day's worth of hard labor, but the playful smirk he shot her made her chuckle softly. She tousled his hair affectionately on her way out.
On her way to the door, she grabbed two sandwiches from the day before—still good, just a little stale—and wrapped them in brown paper. She slipped out into the square, the sun now fully risen, warming the cobblestones beneath her boots.
Rye was already there. He was leaning against the edge of the fountain, waiting for her, dressed in slightly cleaner clothes than before—a shirt without any flour smudges and trousers that weren't frayed at the knees. His blonde curls were still a little disheveled, but she liked them that way. His arms were crossed loosely, and when he spotted her, his entire face softened.
Sadie's boots tapped lightly on the stones as she hurried over. She handed him one of the sandwiches, which he took with a grateful grin. In return, he pulled a small stack of wrapped cookies from his pocket and placed them in her hand. She smiled at the familiar shape of the bakery's wax paper. She knew they were probably a day or two old, a little stale, but she didn't care. She loved the gesture.
Without a word, he leaned down and kissed her. His lips were warm, and he took his time, pressing slow and sure against her mouth. When he pulled back, he whispered softly against her lips, his voice rough with tenderness.
"You look beautiful."
Her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as she smiled, and she shook her head with a quiet chuckle. "You're ridiculous," she murmured, but her voice was full of affection.
He just grinned, slipping his hand into hers, lacing their fingers together. Without another word, he led her toward the meadow, weaving easily through the crowd of bustling citizens.
When they finally reached the meadow, it was almost empty. Most of the district was in the square, preparing for the reaping, but out here, the world was still calm. They found their usual spot under one of the tall willow trees. Its long branches draped lazily toward the ground, creating a curtain of green around them. They sat side by side in the shade, their legs stretched out into the warm patch of grass.
They unwrapped their makeshift lunch and ate slowly, savoring the simplicity of the meal. The sandwiches were a little dry, but neither of them cared. They took turns passing the cookies back and forth, sharing each crumb.
When they were done, Sadie shifted onto her side, resting her head in Rye's lap. His large hands found her hair almost immediately, and without a word, he started braiding it. His fingers worked through the auburn strands carefully, twisting and weaving as he spoke softly, telling her some silly story from the bakery.
"Peeta came in late yesterday morning," he murmured, his voice light and teasing. "Graham was already pissed at him, and the second he stepped through the back door, he tripped over one of the flour sacks and dropped half the bag." He chuckled softly at the memory, his fingers still moving through her hair. "There was flour everywhere. Poor kid looked like he'd been tarred and feathered."
Sadie smiled faintly, her eyes half-closed, lulled by his voice. She could picture Peeta, covered in white powder, probably stammering apologies while Graham scowled. The image made her chuckle softly.
While Rye spoke, her own fingers were busy. She plucked small white daisies from the grass and began weaving them together, her movements delicate and steady. When she was finished, she sat up slightly and turned toward him. Without a word, she placed the daisy crown atop his messy blonde curls, tilting her head as she adjusted it.
Rye blinked at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. His blue eyes softened with such adoration, such quiet devotion, it made her heart ache. She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, her fingers lingering against his skin.
"My daisy king," she whispered teasingly, but her voice was soft, almost reverent.
He stared at her for a moment, then cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again. His lips were warm and sure, slow and lingering. When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to hers, his voice barely above a whisper.
"We'll be okay," he promised, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. "No matter what happens. We'll be okay."
She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, trying to believe him. She wanted to. With everything she had, she wanted to.
The square was already packed when Sadie and Cole arrived. The sun was too bright, too hot, making the heavy stillness of the crowd feel suffocating. Reaping Day always carried a dreadful hush—the quiet of hundreds of people holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable heartbreak.
Her parents clung to them both before they had to separate. Her mother's arms were tight around Sadie's shoulders, and her father's hand was heavy on Cole's back. Neither of them spoke, just pressed their children close, trying to sear the moment into memory in case it was their last.
Cole was the first to pull away, and he offered his sister a trembling smile.
"See you after," he mumbled, but the words felt thin, insubstantial.
Sadie squeezed his hand and nodded, though her throat was too tight to form a proper response. She watched him disappear into the crowd, heading toward the section where the boys were waiting to be checked in.
She turned toward her own line, her eyes scanning the crowd automatically. She spotted them almost instantly—Rye and Peeta, waiting in the boys' line. Rye stood with his broad shoulders squared, hands stuffed into his pockets, but she could tell he was fidgeting with a loose thread on his trousers. Peeta stood beside him, shifting on his feet, looking pale and anxious. Behind them, Graham was safely with their parents, having already aged out of the reaping. She felt a small wave of relief seeing him there, his arm wrapped around Hayley, his fiancée's shoulders.
When it was Sadie's turn, she stepped up to the table. The Peacekeeper took her finger and pressed it against the small, needle-like device, pricking it swiftly. The blood felt warm against her skin as she stamped it onto the paper, the official proof that she was accounted for.
She turned to head toward the back of the square, where the eighteen-year-old girls gathered, relieved to be as far from the front as possible. But before she could take more than a step, a familiar hand caught hers.
Rye.
She turned, startled, but then he was already pulling her toward him, ignoring the stern glares of the Peacekeepers. His hands were rough and warm around hers, and she realized with a jolt that he was still wearing the daisy crown she had made him. The flowers were a little crushed now, slightly lopsided, but they were still there—sitting crookedly in his golden curls.
And then his lips were on hers. He kissed her in front of everyone—in front of the entire district, the Peacekeepers, the Capitol cameras. It didn't matter. He kissed her softly, slowly, lingering as though he were trying to hold on to the moment forever. She felt his thumb brush tenderly against her cheek, a silent promise of everything he was feeling.
When he pulled back, his blue eyes were so full of love that it made her chest ache. She raised her hand and brushed her thumb gently across his cheek, memorizing the roughness of his skin, the shape of his face beneath her fingertips.
And then he was gone.
He slipped into the crowd of boys, disappearing into the sea of them, and Sadie felt her chest tighten. Her legs felt heavy as she turned and moved toward the girls' section, her fingers still tingling from where he had held her.
She took her place at the back, her hands twisting nervously together as she watched the stage. Haymitch Abernathy was already there, but barely. He staggered across the stage, drunk as a skunk, as he always was. When he tripped over the base of the podium, landing in an unceremonious heap, a few people snickered. Most just stared blankly.
Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, was already standing beside him, overly peppy as usual. Her bright pink wig and pristine makeup were a sharp contrast to the sea of grim faces in the crowd. She smiled widely, her Capitol accent grating and sharp as she made her dramatic, hollow speech about honor and sacrifice. The same empty words they heard every year.
Sadie's hands were trembling slightly as Effie reached into the large glass bowl filled with slips of paper. The escort's gloved fingers dipped inside, swirling the names around for show, before she plucked one out with exaggerated flair.
She unfolded the small slip of paper carefully, deliberately, making sure the cameras caught the graceful movement. Then she looked out over the crowd and announced in her crisp, sing-song voice,
"Sadie Fields!"
For a moment, Sadie felt nothing. Just numbness.
The name seemed distant, muffled, as though it had been spoken underwater. She stared straight ahead, blinking slowly, her blood suddenly cold in her veins.
No.
No, no, no.
Her eyes shot toward Rye, instinctively searching for him. She instantly wished she hadn't.
His face was twisted in anguish. It crumpled as though he had been struck. She watched as his chest heaved sharply, tears already spilling down his face. He didn't wipe them away. His blue eyes were wide with terror, locked onto hers.
Someone elbowed her sharply in the ribs—the girl beside her—reminding her that she was supposed to move.
Her feet felt like lead as she stumbled toward the front, her legs unsteady beneath her. The crowd blurred around her. All she could see were the faces—so many faces—watching her, staring at her, breaking for her. She dropped her gaze to the ground, unable to look at them anymore. She was pretty shy by nature, and now, with the weight of their eyes, with the knowledge that she was walking toward her death, she felt like she might collapse.
She barely registered the sound of Effie turning toward the other bowl, drawing the boy's name. Her head was still lowered, her eyes blurry with tears, when she heard it.
"Peeta Mellark!"
Her head snapped up violently.
No.
Her stomach dropped. Her eyes searched frantically through the boys' section, finding Peeta as he took a hesitant step forward. He was trembling, his hands balled into shaky fists. He was barely a few steps out of line when Rye was suddenly there.
Without hesitation, he shoved Peeta behind him. His voice rang out, loud and clear and unwavering.
"I volunteer!"
For half a second, the square was utterly silent. District 12 had never had a volunteer.
Sadie's breath left her in a strangled, broken sob. The sound was raw and ugly and loud, and before she could stop herself, she collapsed on the stage. Her legs gave out, and she hit her knees hard, clutching at the wooden boards.
Rye.
Her Rye.
With her.
In the Games.
She couldn't breathe. The world was spinning violently, slipping in and out of focus. Her hands clutched at the stage, her nails scraping against the rough wood. Her chest heaved with gasping sobs, the sound high-pitched and strangled. She didn't care who heard. She didn't care about the cameras.
And then suddenly he was there. Strong hands gripping her arms, steadying her. She looked up through blurry eyes, and there he was. Rye. His blue eyes were glossy with tears, but he held her so firmly, so surely, as though he could anchor her to the earth.
He pulled her to her feet, his arms locking tightly around her. Without thinking, she threw herself into him, clinging to him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Her body shook violently against his, but his arms never wavered.
She sobbed into his chest, her face pressed against the curve of his neck. She didn't care about the cameras, or the Capitol, or the Peacekeepers, or the rules. She clung to him because she couldn't breathe without him.
Effie stood frozen, blinking uncertainly, unsure of what to do with the sobbing pair of tributes. The cameras zoomed in on them—the lovers, holding each other as though the world might tear them apart.
Eventually, Effie fluttered her hands awkwardly and ushered them inside.
But even as they were pulled into the Justice Building, neither of them let go.