Peeta Mellark moved through the streets of District 13. Few people were outside; the temperature was below freezing and snowflakes drifted lazily, threatening a blizzard within the next few hours.
He reached the door of a small house on the edge of the district and the snow began to fall heavily. Peeta hoped he would make it back home before the blizzard kicked in. He knocked on the door, shifting the package he was carrying to his other hand.
You answer the door and look out at a boy wrapped in a thick scarf, a lopsided knit hat pushed down over his ears. His coat, threadbare and nearly see-through in places, didn't seem to be protecting him much from the cold.
"My father sent me to deliver your bread," Peeta said in a soft voice, looking up at you. His nose was red from the cold and his lips were beginning to turn blue.
"Well you shouldn't keep standing outside in this miserable weather," you said, offering him a smile. You feel bad that he has come all of this way just to bring you your bread, what with the snow falling so hard. "Why don't you come in?"
He brushed past you and you helped him to unlace his boots, for his fingers had begun to tremble. He pulled off his other boot and you took the bread from him so that he was able to use both hands to do it. On your way to the kitchen, you noticed that your parents weren't home. They were likely holed up at their friend's house, where they had taken over some herbs for their sick child.
You walked into the kitchen, feeling apprehensive for you knew that for the next few hours it would continue to snow and Peeta would stay with you. You put the kettle on the stove to boil, and got out a small carton with tea leaves inside it. It slipped out of your hands and fell onto the floor. Luckily, none of it spilled.
Peeta, who had come in behind you after taking off his boots, picked the container up and handed it back to you.
"Thanks," you said, and carefully poured the hot water into two chipped mugs. He gave you a radiant smile as you handed him a mug. He took a quick sip of the hot liquid and leaned back against the counter. Peeta's blonde hair was already beginning to dry in the warmth from the stove.
You talked him into moving to the living room, where you built up a fire in the hearth. He took the blanket you offered him and you sat next to him on the floor as he wrapped it around himself, shivering as the snow on his clothes melted. It didn't take too long for him to warm up and when he had, he offered you the blanket back.
You took it and wrapped it around the two of you, telling him that it wouldn't be good if he got cold again. You began to talk, and he watched you intently as you told him stories about your parents and your friends. You liked the way he looked at you; watchful, but still relaxed.
Taking another sip of tea, you motioned to him. "It's your turn now. Tell me something," you said, and you leaned against his shoulder. He began to tell a story of how his mother used to yell at him or hit him, and how he had once gotten away with giving burned bread to a starving girl named Katniss.
As the afternoon wore on, you continued to talk. His arm had found its way around your shoulders a little while ago and had not moved since.
"I'd better be headed back," he murmured. The clock in the kitchen read five and the snow outside the grimy window was finally beginning to let up. He stood and helped you up.
"It's too bad you have to go," you whispered, looking into his eyes. A twist of longing went through you when he looked deep into your eyes, smiling kindly. His blonde hair tickled his eyebrows as he spoke.
"I wish I didn't have to." He laced up his boots. When he was done, you handed him his jacket. He lingered on the doorstep as he threw it on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. His hat hung limply out of his pocket, damp from earlier in the day.
"I hope your mother isn't mad at you," you said, feeling guilty. You lean against the doorframe.
He leaned in and kissed you on the cheek. "If she is, it's been worth it," he said, and turned and ran for home.
You watched him until he had disappeared from sight. The lightest scent of cinnamon was all that remained to show he had been there.