From a Tumblr prompt 'I wish you would write a fic where ... katniss is like gordon ramsay in kitchen nightmares' (I've edited the prompt here for brevity)

He had watched her all through middle school, and high school too, had spent years of his life imagining her walking into the bakery his parents owned where he could woo her with artisanal breads and fancy cakes.

But this was definitely not part of his fantasy.

"You are an idiot sandwich!" Katniss Everdeen hollered as she pressed two pieces of bread to the sides of his head. It was the good hearty bread too, filled with raisins and nuts, a bestseller at the bakery and one of his favourites. A myriad of emotions played through his mind; horror and humiliation, a feeling that he just might cry, but beneath was that familiar quickening of his heart rate at the way her white chef's coat strained to cover her pert breasts. Thump thump thump his heart pounded, and she smirked, even as she pressed the bread more firmly to his ears.

Thump thump thump. "Peeta! Get your ass out of bed!" Peeta Mellark groaned as he pried his eyes open in the darkness and glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 3:45 am. The alarm wasn't set to go off for another fifteen minutes.

"Dammit, Rye, it's not even four," he grumbled, dislodging the pillow - flat and slightly drool-dampened - from over his ear.

"That TV show chick is coming today," the voice hollered through the door. "It's going to be a big, big, big day!" Rye was far too perky for a quarter to four in the morning. But despite his pique at being awoken early, Peeta couldn't blame his brother for being excited. Their little bakery was going to be featured on a brand new show from one of the hottest television personalities in Panem.

Kat Flickerman was a household name, her sarcastic and expletive-filled television show, Kitchen Nightmares, was must-watch TV. And her new show, The B Word, featuring small-town bakeries, was promising to be even better. Mellark's, a staple in District Twelve for over seventy-five years, would be the first establishment showcased. The publicity and sales uptick that came from being featured on the program more than made up for the embarrassment of having a five-foot-nothing firebrand rip apart every aspect of your business. Or so the producers that contacted his brother said.

Peeta wasn't convinced. After all, he'd been making a fool of himself in front of the former Katniss Everdeen his whole life, and it hadn't gotten him anywhere.

Neither Rye nor their father seemed to remember that world-famous Kat Flickerman had once been Katniss Everdeen, from the poor part of Twelve. But Peeta remembered. He remembered everything about her, though she'd never paid him any attention.

He remembered her sparkling silver eyes as she skipped through the halls of their elementary school, singing to herself. Eyes that dimmed and hardened after her father's death. He remembered how hollow her cheeks were in the months after that, when he'd leave part of his lunch in her cubby each morning. He remembered how she'd grown into a solitary, sometimes sullen but always striking young woman who worked and studied and never participated in any of the meagre social activities District Twelve offered.

He even knew how a quiet, shy girl from the wrong side of the tracks parlayed a gig reviewing restaurants for her college's newspaper into fame and fortune, though that part he'd read on her Wikipedia page. He wasn't sure he understood it though. The Katniss who'd stolen his heart when he was only a boy wasn't a lot like the girl on fire he saw on television. Not that he watched her shows.

(He definitely watched her shows.)

But none of that mattered anymore, not really. Because Katniss Everdeen left District Twelve five years ago and had never, as far as Peeta knew, come back. There was no mention of District Twelve in any of her bios or interviews. Katniss Everdeen had essentially disappeared. Kat Flickerman - foul-mouthed, foul-tempered, fire and fury Kat Flickerman - was the woman he was going to meet today. And he was fairly sure she wouldn't remember him anyway. Probably wouldn't even notice him, unless it was to berate some mistake he'd made or pick apart the menu items.

o-o-o

Peeta had the display cases full of glossy frosted cookies and perfect cupcakes long before the production crew showed up. He knew that there wouldn't be any filming that morning, save for some generic 'before' shots, but still he wanted to put his best foot forward. Mellark's might not be world-class, but it had been in his family for generations, it was a part of him. Rye, too, was beaming, polishing the countertops until they gleamed in the shafts of sunlight that came through windows so clean they looked devoid of glass. Their father spent an hour on a ladder, writing the day's wares on the menu board in practiced chalk strokes. Though District Twelve was nothing more than a tiny backwater village, the Mellark men had their pride.

The group that descended on their small shop was definitely not from around there. Loud voices and loud colours shattered the sleepy District Twelve ambiance. The TV crew consisted of a pair of burly cameramen with heavy mobile cameras encasing their bodies like insect shells, a woman director named Cressida who had a shaved head tattooed with green vines, and her assistant, Messalla, a slim young man with several sets of earrings. On careful observation, it appeared his tongue had been pierced, too, and he was wearing a stud with a silver ball the size of a marble. Peeta shuddered slightly. But missing from the crew was the one woman he'd been longing to see.

He shouldn't have been surprised. She was the star after all, doubtless she'd breeze in only for her own scenes. But his disappointment was almost tangible.

Peeta opened the front shop and kept it running while Rye and their father walked the crew through the back, mapping out electrical outlets and places where spotlighting could be temporarily installed. Occasionally, the sound of laughter floated forward, but for the most part it was a typical Tuesday morning. The regulars wandered in and out, and he chatted with everyone, the comfort of familiarity soothing him.

He had just packed up some cookies for old Sae's granddaughter when the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Standing in the doorway of the shop was a ghost. Katniss Everdeen.

She wasn't dressed like Kat Flickerman. Instead of a chef's coat and crisp black pants, she was wearing jeans and a muted orange sweater. Her black hair was in the braid he remembered from their school days, long and thick, glinting blue in the morning sun. She was stunning.

She'd been glancing around the front shop but then froze, lifting her eyes to Peeta's, as if feeling the weight of his stare. So many times in school she'd caught him staring, and each time he'd looked away quickly, blushing. But not today. Today he held her silver gaze. And then she smiled. "Katniss," he whispered, or maybe he just thought it. Either way, her smile widened.

"Hello, Peeta," she said, and his name in her mouth evoked a rush of arousal so potent he was certain she could see it stealing across his face. "It's been a long time."

"Five years," he said without even realizing. He was stunned she even knew his name. Her eyes widened a little, but her soft smile didn't fall.

"It looks exactly the same in here," she said, and Peeta stiffened. It was true that the decor hadn't changed in a long time, except for the addition of some of his paintings, and the fancy European coffeemaker he'd insisted on when he became a partner after college. He'd always thought that was part of the charm of Mellark's, it's dependability. He viewed the warm wood and twinkling glass as classic, elegant. But he'd watched enough of Kat Flickerman's shows to know that she was seeing only tired and shabby. It hurt to envision what her team might do.

"Well," he drawled. "Not much ever changes in Twelve."

"You have," she said, her eyes sweeping over him and he felt the heat rising in his cheeks. She was right, though it felt kind of shitty to be reminded. In high school, he'd been all state in wrestling, had worked out every day and watched his diet carefully to make weight. Had been even more serious about his sport in college, until a torn ACL killed that. Nowadays, he stayed fit running and playing pick-up football with the guys. He was in good shape, but he knew he wasn't lean like before. "Yeah," she said, distracted, her pink tongue snaking out to sweep over her lower lip. He had the distinct impression that she was checking him out. But that couldn't be. "You look good," she murmured.

He crooked an eyebrow. "Thanks?"

Her eyes widened. "I just, uh. I mean. Working here. If, uh. If I worked here I'd weigh a ton for sure."

Peeta laughed; Katniss couldn't weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. She'd always been tiny. "You're around food every day," he said. She shrugged.

"But everything you make is fantastic."

A small, pleased smile teased his lips. But before he could respond, one of the Capitol people came through the swinging doors that separated the front shop. "Kat," she practically yelled. "We weren't expecting you for a few hours yet, we haven't started assembling the tasting."

Katniss stiffened, seeming to grow taller and more menacing before Peeta's eyes. Her expression darkened and shuttered, a mask sliding into place. It was a fascinating and frightening process. The woman who acknowledged Cressida with a scowl bore only a superficial resemblance to the woman Peeta had been chatting with.

"I told you I would be choosing the menu items to feature," Katniss said, and the frostiness of her tone made Peeta shiver.

"Of course," the other woman said. "We could start now?" All of Cressida's brashness faded into supplication.

Rye and their father had come into the frontshop and were watching the exchange warily. Peeta stood back as Cressida introduced the rest of his family to Kat. "We can set up in the office," Mr. Mellark said.

Katniss nodded and followed the others through the swinging doors. His father turned back to Peeta. "Could you bring back some coffee?" he asked, and Peeta's heart sank. Twenty-six years old, and still low man on the totem pole, still the one who was given the grunt jobs, relegated to the wings, or just dismissed outright. As much as he loved the family business, he hated the family dynamic.

Stuck in the shadows or not, Peeta remembered a few things about Katniss that the rest of his family didn't know, and one of those was her hatred of coffee. Oh, it was likely that she'd learned to tolerate it over the years, as he'd done himself. Still, he thought as he steamed milk; coffee drinkers are born, not made.

He carried a tray ladened with hot beverages back to the room that acted as staff lounge and office for the Mellark men and the handful of part-timers they employed. Already, half-filled plates littered the table top, various bakery items cut open, then abandoned. And at the head of the table like a queen commanding her court was Katniss, still wearing her Kat Flickerman expression, sheafs of yellow notebook paper scattered around her. Peeta set the tray of coffee in the middle of the table, but he grabbed the lone different cup and placed it wordlessly beside Katniss, then backed away, unwilling to disrupt her.

He couldn't resist glancing back as he exited the room, and he found Katniss watching his retreat, surprise in her silver eyes and the barest hint of a smile stealing across her lush lips as she traced the rim of the mug of hot chocolate he'd brought her with a single slender finger.

o-o-o

Peeta was busy the rest of the day, manning the ovens, covering the phones, serving the lunch rush. His father reappeared a few times to make more coffee or grab something specific from the display cases, but there wasn't an opportunity to talk. And with Rye occupied in the back, catering to the Capitolites, there wasn't time for Peeta to take a break either. By the time the rush was over, and Peeta staggered to the back full-bladdered and empty-stomached, the film crew - and Kat Flickerman - were gone. His father was cleaning up the mess they'd left behind in the office, and Rye was staring at a sheet of yellow paper with a particularly sour expression on his face.

"What's going on?" Peeta asked as he stuffed half a day-old scone in his mouth. Rye grunted, and tossed the paper his way.

"They want all of this ready and plated for that woman tomorrow evening."

Peeta scanned the list. There were only six items, and all were things they'd typically make anyway. All except the goat cheese and apple tart - they hadn't made that particular recipe in years. "I don't understand-" he started, but Rye cut him off.

"She hated everything, she's going to rip us to shit." Peeta rolled his eyes, but held his tongue. There was no point in reminding Rye that this had all been his idea.

"It's going to be fine," their father's tired voice broke the silence. "She never said she hated anything, Rye."

"You saw her," he barked. "Cutting everything up, barely picking at it before tossing it aside. Big city bitch, probably never tasted real bakery bread in her life." It was on the tip of Peeta's tongue to tell his brother that not only was Katniss not a big city girl, but he knew for certain she'd had Mellark's cheese buns before. But before he could defend Katniss, Rye turned back to him and smirked. "She wants you to be the one on camera with her."

Peeta nearly choked on his scone. "What?"

"Yeah," he sneered. "Guess she can tell you're easy to push around. Bet she makes you cry." Rye had inherited their late mother's cruel streak, though he hadn't aimed it in Peeta's direction much since her death.

"Fuck you, Rye," Peeta spat. Rye only laughed.

"Save the backbone for the camera."

"Boys," their father groaned, but Peeta had had enough.

"You can close up alone, asshole," he snipped at Rye, tossing his apron on the table and heading out the back door.

o-o-o

Filming would take place after normal working hours, when the bakery was closed, both to keep compliant with health codes, and to keep small-town busybodies from trying to usurp the spotlight. But that didn't change the fact that it was a Wednesday. There were customers to serve and orders to fulfil on top of the list of bakery items the show producers wanted ready for closing.

Apparently, Rye's bad mood persisted. He stormed into the kitchen hours late, after Peeta had done the entire morning prep himself and had been forced to call in frontshop reinforcements - his father and one of the summer students. Rye bashed around the kitchen and snapped at the customers for an hour until their father simply sent him home again.

"He's just jealous," Mr. Mellark told his younger son, "Because Katniss asked for you specifically."

Peeta looked up from the cookie he was painting with delicate white blossoms and arrow-shaped leaves. "You remember her?" he asked, though it was clear his father did. The older man laughed.

"I'm not yet senile, Peet," he smiled. "She looks different on television, but seeing her in person yesterday, she hasn't changed much from that little girl who used to come in here with her daddy way back when."

Peeta chuckled. "I'd say she's changed a whole lot, Dad. She used to be so reserved."

"I have a feeling she still is," he said cryptically. "She certainly wasn't having any of your brother's flirting." Peeta huffed out a laugh; after the way Rye had treated him over the previous twenty-four hours, he couldn't help feeling a little bit of pleasure in the idea that Rye had struck out.

His own crush on Katniss had nothing to do with that satisfaction.

"She's a big celebrity now, Dad. She wouldn't have time for a small-town baker."

"Not so sure about that either, but Rye wasn't the baker she was watching," he muttered before wandering out to the front shop to help the lone part-timer clean up.

Peeta didn't have time to ponder what his father meant. There were still cupcakes to frost and cheese buns to bake, and the film crew was due within the hour.

o-o-o

A prep team came twenty minutes before closing to get him ready, parking their small trailer in the lot out back. They clipped and tousled and gelled his hair, then powdered his face. Peeta had dressed in a nice blue button down shirt, but that was nixed in favour of a soft red Henley the crew brought along with them, surprisingly in the right size. They even let him push the sleeves up, the way he was most comfortable.

The woman who arrived later with the film crew was the one he knew from television. In a starched white chef's jacket, and with hair and makeup done, she was gorgeous, fierce, unforgettable.

Peeta was a goner.

He barely saw her, though, as the director demanded his attention, coaching him on what to expect. "Kat doesn't work well with being told what to say," she admitted. "So all of the questions tonight will be unscripted." Peeta nodded. "Think of it as a laid-back chat with a friend," Cressida smiled, and Peeta barely bit back a snort. Twelve years in the same schools and they'd barely exchanged ten words; a conversation with Katniss Everdeen would be anything but relaxed.

Another half hour of explaining camera blocking and marks, and finally Cressida led him to the front shop, which had been transformed into a stage. Hot lights blinded him, microphones dangled over his head and it felt like a thousand people were crammed into the space.

Then she was there, Katniss. But no, not Katniss, Kat Flickerman. Aloof and business-like, gorgeous but cold. Untouchable.

Everything went exactly as Cressida had explained. Kat asked him questions, about the history of the shop, about the recipes, about the little town where they'd both grown up (though she didn't mention that part).

Though Peeta was gregarious by nature, this was so far out of his comfort zone, the cameras, the crowd, all of them fixated on him, watching him interact stiffly with the woman he'd had a crush on since before he even knew what that meant. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and more than once he stammered, fell over his own tongue or outright blanked on an answer. He could feel Katniss's frustration mounting. The fourth (fifth? thirtieth?) time it happened, Katniss cringed and turned away. "Clear the set," she bellowed.

The crew leapt to attention; within moments, they were alone. Peeta stared at his shoes while he waited for Katniss to dismiss him too. His father was back in the office, perhaps he could take over and save the show.

Then a small, cool hand landed on his forearm, startling him from his misery. "Take a deep breath," she said. Her voice was gentle, not Kat Flickerman anymore, but Katniss, the woman he often thought of as his Katniss, though she wasn't that either. But she smiled at him, the barest quirk of her perfect peach lips. And a deep, guttural sigh escaped him as he started to relax. "Good," she murmured, her hand on his arm squeezing lightly. "Feeling better?" He could only nod.

She pulled over the plate with the delicate painted cookies, smiling softly at the flowers she clearly recognized. "These were always my favourite when I was a kid," she murmured.

Peeta looked up in confusion. He knew how much Katniss liked Mellark's cheese buns, but he couldn't remember a single time she'd bought the cookies. As if reading his mind, she shrugged. "I've never eaten one," she admitted, softly. "They're far too pretty to eat. But I used to come by with my sister and look at them in the display window.

He could see it in his mind's eye; Katniss, her hair in two glossy braids, holding the hand of a smaller blonde girl, both peeking through the window. "Not very often," she whispered. "Your mom was kind of scary, she'd chase us off if we got too close to the glass."

Peeta cringed, and started to apologize, but Katniss waved him off. "It wasn't your fault," she said, still speaking softly, intimately. "You've never been anything but kind, always." She looked away, laughing just lightly under her breath. "I always wondered how you could be so nice, having grown up with her."

He shrugged, and deflected. "You should try a cookie now. Better late than never."

Her smile widened, and it transformed her face, elevating her from beautiful to radiant. "Better late than never," she murmured.

She didn't eat the cookie, but they continued to talk, and Peeta got more and more comfortable. They talked about recipes - the age-old traditional wares that Mellark's had been making for generations and the newer flavours and he and Rye enjoyed experimenting with. She admitted that she'd asked for the apple and goat cheese tart because it was one she remembered fondly, something her father had loved all of those years ago.

He filled her in on the things that had happened in Twelve since she moved away, their classmates, who had gotten married, who had children now. She was engrossed and engaged, reminiscing about people Peeta hadn't even been sure she knew. She laughed at his anecdotes, and it was like bells ringing, clear and bright.

He even found himself telling her how much he loved the bakery, but how he longed to make it more, how he wanted Mellark's to be a gathering spot, in tradition of the great Parisian cafés. "Have you been to Paris, Peeta?" she asked, and his smile faltered a little. Here he was talking about big cosmopolitan ideas when he'd never even left the district. Katniss, he knew, had been everywhere, had reviewed restaurants not just in Paris, but in Milan and Amsterdam and Vienna… what a fool she must think him, backward, small-town boy with grandiose ideas. He shook his head, embarrassed.

Katniss didn't seem to notice his discomfort. "Paris is awful," she whispered conspiratorially. "Crowded and loud and it smells like cigarettes and pee." Peeta laughed lightly and she grinned at him, disarming him completely. "But Twelve isn't any of those things," she murmured. "I think this is a perfect spot for a café. People are already drawn here, they already gather at Mellarks. It's always been so warm and inviting here." Her words tugged at his heart. That's exactly how he'd always felt about the family business too, how he'd always hoped others would see it. "I know I'd love to sit here and watch the world go by."

"With a hot chocolate?" Peeta teased lightly, and she looked away, shyly.

"And a cheese bun," she murmured.

"I wish you would," he said, barely breathing. "Come back sometime, I mean." She met his eyes then, and a myriad of emotions played across her expressive face. He just couldn't understand what they meant.

She took his hand, shocking him with how good, how intensely right it felt. She guided him over to where the largest of his paintings hung, a spring landscape of the meadow that was on the edge of town, dotted with clover and dandelions. "This is yours, isn't it?" He nodded. "It's gorgeous," she breathed reverently. She paused, and Peeta could see her weighing her words. "I always thought you'd make a career in art, open a gallery maybe."

Peeta sighed, looking down at where their hands were still linked. He knew she wasn't intentionally trying to pick at the barely-healed wound of his dead dreams, but it stung.

"You were always drawing in school," Katniss continued, oblivious to his turmoil. "You designed the yearbook cover one year, and you won that award when we were seniors." She trailed off, and they stood silently for several long moments. Finally, Peeta blew out a forceful breath.

"My eldest brother was supposed to take over the bakery. He and my mom, they, uh. There was a car accident," he whispered, voice cracking. He'd been offered a job right out of college, with a studio in the Capitol, but the accident that took his mother and brother forced him home. Katniss squeezed his hand, hard.

"I heard," she admitted, and it surprised Peeta. The accident was almost four years ago, well after she moved her mother and sister out of this dumpy town, never to return. "I'm sorry."

Peeta cleared his throat. "Anyway, my dad was all alone here after that, trying to run this place. So Rye and I agreed to become partners."

They stood silently, looking over the meadow painting, lost in their thoughts. "Are you happy, Peeta?" she asked, barely a whisper.

"Sometimes," he said. He was happy in that moment, talking with the girl of his dreams, holding her hand, feeling the warmth of her body just inches away. He was happy right then, and that was something at least.

There was a scuffling sound behind them and they sprang apart. It was the red-headed cameraman, tucked unobtrusively to the side. Peeta hadn't noticed his return until that moment, so focussed was he on Katniss, on talking and connecting with her, something he had never imagined possible.

But all good things must come to an end. "Do you think you can go on? Just the three of us?" Katniss asked. And Peeta nodded.

o-o-o

It was late when Peeta finally staggered home to the apartment he shared, often reluctantly, with Rye. The set tear-down had been pandemonium, people and equipment flying like a tempest, a whirlwind of follow up questions and paperwork and releases and by the time he could take a deep breath, Katniss was gone, slipped away like a thief in the night without even a farewell, before he could ask her if she'd like to go out with him sometime. And while he was trying not to be disappointed, the fact that after they'd shared what he had thought was a real connection she'd simply vanished without a word hurt more than he wanted to admit.

"How did it go?" Rye's voice drifted from their shared living room. Peeta popped his head in. Rye was slumped on the couch, a tumbler of what could only be whiskey balanced on his thigh.

"Seemed okay," Peeta said, carefully. It was hard enough to gauge Rye's mood when he wasn't drinking, with the addition of alcohol he wasn't sure which version of his brother he'd find.

Rye smirked, then lifted his other hand, tipping the bottle in Peeta's direction. "Have a drink with me," he said. Still, Peeta hesitated. Rye shook his head. "I'm not going to rip your head off, little brother."

Peeta grabbed a glass from the sideboard and Rye filled it with a couple of fingers of liquid fire. For a while, they simply sipped in silence. "I'm sorry I was a dick earlier," Rye said quietly.

Knowing how much it cost his brother to apologize, Peeta nodded. He wasn't really a grudge holder anyway. "It's fine," he said.

"It's not though." Rye sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. "I was really hoping this show would be the wake-up call Dad needed to let us make real changes at the bakery. It was supposed to be him in front of the camera, getting dressed down by that woman. When she insisted on you, I saw red." Rye sighed, and downed the remainder of his glass. "You know he's going to blame us now for every shitty thing she says." Rye's bleary eyes met Peeta's. "If we're going to be stuck here forever, we should at least be able to drag this place into the modern era."

Peeta felt a pang of sympathy for his brother. He wasn't the only one who'd had to give up his dreams for the future to come help their father run the business that neither of them had ever planned on inheriting. Rye'd had big city plans and a big city girlfriend who dumped him when he moved back home to sleepy District Twelve. He had every right to be bitter, even if he sometimes chose inappropriate targets to lash out at.

"She didn't say anything mean, anyway," Peeta said. "The whole thing was pretty tame. Not at all what I was expecting." The beginning had been rough, but he felt good about what they'd filmed after he'd calmed down. He thought he'd presented Mellark's in a pretty good light, all things told.

"Naw," Rye said with a sigh. "They'll add all of that in later. It's always voiceovers." That idea shocked Peeta. Was that possible? Would the screaming, nasty Kat Flickerman only make an appearance in the finished version? Surely not?

o-o-o

Days, and then weeks, passed, and while Peeta thought about Katniss often, there wasn't a peep from her. Not an email, not a phone call, nothing. A cameraman returned to film some exterior and kitchen shots, and though Peeta tried to ask him about Katniss, he was all but mute on the subject.

There had been something between them, that evening in the bakery, he was sure of it, sure she'd felt it too. He couldn't understand why she'd disappeared. She hadn't even said goodbye. As if he hadn't mattered at all.

Rye's words rolled around his head, festered, made him doubt everything from that day. He compulsively rewatched old episodes of Kitchen Nightmares, looking for any hint that the screaming and cursing was added in after the fact. It was impossible to tell. But with every installment, his memories of sweet Katniss faded, replaced by the snarling mutt.

With every day that passed, his mood plummeted further. Because Rye was right: the majority of the screaming and vitriol could well have been voiced over. He just couldn't tell what was real and what was not real

A message on the bakery phone almost two months after the filming convinced him. One of the producers wanted to give them a 'heads up' on what to expect for the broadcast, scheduled for the next week. It could only have been a warning. He was about to appear on national television looking like a chump, as useless and pathetic as his mother had always told him he was. Peeta deleted the message without even telling his father or brother about it.

There were two more calls after that. Peeta deleted both of those messages too, unheard. The only thing he couldn't delete was the ache in his heart.

Every gentle thing she'd said to relax him, to ease him back in front of the camera, it had all been lies. Katniss, no, Kat, had used their past, their tenuous connection, just to manipulate him. Just to make him look like the idiot he was.

o-o-o

"I booked the lodge for our viewing party."

Peeta glanced up from the wedding cake he was working on to stare at his father in confusion. "What?"

"With how many people want to watch the show, I can't fit them all in at the house." Peeta's father still stubbornly lived alone in the bungalow where Peeta had grown up. It was large enough to host two dozen or so, at least.

"They all have televisions, they can watch at home," Peeta grumbled. Despite his best efforts to ignore the existence of Kat Flickerman's show entirely, the local station had been aggressively promoting the upcoming episode. Someone from the morning news had been in the week before, interviewing Rye and their father. Peeta had refused to take part.

"My boy," his father laughed, steadfastly ignoring Peeta's pique, as he had for weeks. As they'd all done for weeks. His mood had gotten progressively worse the more he thought about Katniss and how she'd used him, and he knew everyone around him could tell. "This is a great occasion! Our little bakery on national television. Of course we're going to celebrate with all of our friends and customers." Peeta cringed, but his father continued, undeterred. "I wish my own father was here to see it."

The reminder of how much this meant to his father had Peeta feeling even worse. "Dad, it'll be embarrassing, for all of us. I'm going to look like an idiot. People are going to stay away from Mellark's after that." He knew he sounded petulant but he didn't care.

His father smiled. "I spoke with that director, Peet, the one with the strange tattoos? She called the house the other night." Peeta groaned inwardly; he'd underestimated that woman's tenacity. "She says the show looks great, that you were a natural." Peeta knew there was no point arguing with his father. Once the elder Mellark had his mind set, he was intractable.

"How many people did you invite?" Peeta groused.

"Oh sixty, maybe. Plus the guys from the bowling league." Peeta's heart sank; at this rate, the entire town was going to be witness to his humiliation. "But don't worry, I'm having Rooba cater it."

"Geez, Dad, don't you think that's too much?" The elder Mellark set down his own piping bag and grasped his son's shoulders, turning him until they were face to face.

"What's gotten into you, son? You're not usually this pessimistic," he said, his hands squeezing soothingly. It took every bit of Peeta's strength to hold his tongue. As much as he loved his father, the shame was his alone to bear.

"Nothing," he muttered. "I just don't think it went very well." The two men stared at each other, and Peeta knew without a doubt that his father hadn't bought his explanation. But he wasn't ready to share his heartbreak, his stupidity. He'd been so caught up in that long-held crush he'd almost willfully ignored reality. Mr. Mellark simply sighed.

"I wish you'd talk to me Peeta. But okay." He clapped Peeta on the shoulder, and turned back to his work.

o-o-o

Three days before the show was to air, there was a call on Peeta's cell from an unfamiliar number. He let it go to voicemail. The bakery phone had been ringing non-stop it seemed with calls from media outlets, wanting interviews in advance of the airing. He assumed one of his well-meaning friends had given his number to someone at the D12 Gazette.

But when he picked up the message later, he nearly dropped his phone in the sink.

It was Katniss.

The message was brief, simply a request for him to return her call and a number, her number.

Peeta had no intention of calling her back. But it didn't stop him from listening to the message five, ten, fifteen times.

There were two more messages the next day. He wanted to delete them unheard, but he couldn't. Even wounded and wary, the bone-deep need to hear her voice prevailed. The content of each was the same, but her tone seemed progressively more urgent. The sound of her voice, the way she called herself Katniss instead of Kat, all of it pulled at his heartstrings, confused him even more.

The same cowardice and insecurity that had kept him from seeking her out their whole childhood silenced him now. Though his fingers twitched to redial her number, he did nothing.

o-o-o

"I said no, Dad." Peeta knew he was being petulant but on this point he was firm: he was not going to his father's viewing party. He'd capitulated to helping his father set up, he wasn't a complete dick. But he'd decided the best thing for him to do would be to hole up in his apartment during the actual airing.

If only because he couldn't get a last minute flight out of the country.

Rye, ironically, had been the most understanding about Peeta's desire to avoid the show and all of the insanity their father was planning around it. "I'll text you," he said the evening before, when Peeta told him he wasn't even intending on watching. "Let you know how bad it is."

"I just don't understand what you're afraid of," Mr. Mellark said with a shake of his head. "You're going to be on national television, it's exciting. The promos look terrific." Those, Peeta had been unable to avoid. And while they hadn't looked scathing, he no longer trusted his instincts.

"You've watched her other shows," he groaned, the thousandth time he'd made the same argument, but his father was having none of it.

"This was different and you know it. You had a connection with Katniss, we could all see it."

"Stop," Peeta barked, and his father's eyes widened. Peeta cringed, sad and ashamed of himself for taking his foul mood out on his father. "That was just for the cameras," he said softly, giving voice to what his head had been telling him for weeks. "None of that was real."

"You're wrong, Peet. I know what I saw."

"You know I had a crush on her, that's all," Peeta groaned, but his father cut him off.

"No," has said firmly. "I saw how she looked at you."

"Then why did she disappear? Two months, Dad, and not a word." It wasn't completely accurate, but Peeta wasn't going to mention the messages to his father, who would surely read more into them than was there.

"I don't know, son. Maybe for the same reason you're avoiding her now." Peeta shot a startled look at his father, who simply shook his head.

o-o-o

Peeta paced his apartment like a caged tiger, the dark television taunting him. The broadcast was scheduled to start any minute, his father's party was more than an hour old, and he was alone with only a six pack of microbrew and his demons to keep him company.

One last message had come to his phone just a couple of hours earlier, a text message this time. Please talk to me, Peeta, was all it read. He'd been so tempted, so damned tempted to reply. Had started typing a dozen times, but erased every word. What could they possibly have to say to each other now? Too much time had passed.

The television called to him though, a siren song he was powerless to resist. He told himself he'd only watch the beginning, would shut it off as soon as she started yelling. But the moment Katniss appeared onscreen in the opening credits, beautiful face larger than life with glossed lips smirking, he knew he wouldn't be able to look away.

The tone of the program was markedly different from her Kitchen Nightmares shows. The camera showed flattering pictures of the exterior and interior of the bakery while his own voice spoke overtop, recounting the history, the generations of Mellarks who had lovingly built the bakery into the the hub of District Twelve that it was.

But that was only the beginning.

The video unfurled almost like a love letter. But not to the bakery, or not exactly anyway. Instead, it showed Peeta himself, over and over. Peeta painstakingly frosting gorgeous cupcakes. Peeta laughing with a customer. Peeta kneeling before one of the small children that frequented the shop, handing her a cookie from the jar he kept behind the counter. Typical scenes from his everyday work, scenes he hadn't even realized he'd been filmed in. Over and over he was shown smiling, laughing, creating.

Finally, Kat Flickerman began to speak. Rye was right that her part would be voiceovers, would be words she hadn't spoken during the interview. But there was no swearing, no cursing. No yelling about the quality of the food or the shabbiness of the surroundings. No idiot sandwiches.

Kat Flickerman, Katniss, talked about the warm, welcoming atmosphere at Mellark's, the three kind bakers who treated every customer like a friend. She paraphrased Peeta's own hushed confessions about the improvements he wanted to make, and presented them as if they were things already planned to be implemented. Peeta, sitting on the couch in his apartment, laughed out loud. Somehow, Katniss had managed to manipulate the entire show in a way that would force his father to bring Mellark's into the modern era after all. As if she knew exactly what he wanted.

Of course, she had known. He'd told her, when they'd spoken so intimately, about his hopes. He hadn't realized how closely she was listening. But now, as he thought back, he understood that she'd directed their discussion back to his dreams for the future, time and again, and then worked all of those things into the show.

All but the one he hadn't confessed. How he felt about her. How he thought she was gorgeous, more radiant than the sun. And now, because he'd wasted so long being wounded, he'd never get the chance.

His phone buzzed near continuously on the table beside him, but he didn't spare it a glance.

As the ending credits rolled, there was a gentle tap-tap-tap at the apartment door. It could have been any number of people, friends or neighbours who knew he was home. But as he stood to answer, he was struck with the certainty that it was Katniss standing on the other side.

His hands shook as he unbolted the door and pulled it open. She wore a dress the colour of candlelight, her hair was loose and she had just a hint of makeup. "You didn't come to the party," she said, a glint of accusation in her silver eyes.

"I didn't know you'd be there," he said honestly, unblinking as he took her in. As if he could have forgotten how beautiful she was, watching her shows compulsively over the past few weeks. But the camera never captured her luminosity, the way she lit up a room, commanded the attention of everyone within it. He was awestruck.

"Your father invited me," she murmured. "Can I come in?" Peeta shook off his stupor and ushered her into his space with a muttered apology.

The television still blared, playing a Food Network promo, and Peeta quickly muted it. "Did, you, uh. Did you want a drink? Beer?" Peeta asked, not meeting her eyes. She nodded.

Only when they were settled side by side on his couch did Katniss speak again. "You watched?" It wasn't a question, not really. Peeta nodded. She raised a single eyebrow at him, and he couldn't help but smile.

"It wasn't what I expected," he said quietly. She frowned.

"You were waiting for me to scream, rip apart your family business, destroy your reputation?" There was no amusement in her tone. Peeta felt the heat rising in his cheeks.

"Kind of," he admitted.

She's silent for a long time, picking at the edge of the label on her bottle. "Did you really think I'd do that to you?" she asked, and there was a fragility, a vulnerability to the words.

Peeta sighed. "I didn't know what to think," he said.

"I thought…" She sighed. "The way we… connected," she whispered. "I guess I thought you'd know."

Peeta battled with himself briefly, whether to be honest with her or not. The warm room, the beer and the uncertainty in her eyes convinced him. "I couldn't tell what was real," he said, "and what was for the camera."

"You really thought I'd manipulate you like that?" Katniss stared at the bottle in her hands, shoulders slumped in defeat. "I know my reputation, I know that people think I'm a bitch," she said softly. "But we've known each other since we were children. I thought you knew me. The real me, at least a little." She glanced up at him and his breath caught. She was so open, so guileless. But he still wasn't certain what to believe.

"We never really spoke, back then," he said. "And I know that was my fault. I was a coward."

Katniss shook her head. "You were always kind, even when no one else noticed I existed. You saved me back then, you know. When my mom lost herself." Those stunning silver eyes searched his own. "I owe you."

"You've never owed me anything," Peeta said, but Katniss wasn't done talking. She set her bottle on the table and turned slightly to face him.

"That's why I did this show. To pay you back." Peeta was more confused than ever. "I had a plan," she continued. "When I heard that you were here, instead of in the Capitol, I started lobbying the network to create this show."

"What?"

"Delly Cartwright," she said. "My sister keeps in touch with her brother. She said that you were back home, running the bakery. It took awhile to get the go-ahead for this show." He'd been at the bakery more than three years, surely she didn't mean that long? "I've always kept track of you," she said, answering his unasked question.

"Why?" His voice was hoarse. She shrugged helplessly. "You disappeared, after the taping," he blurted. "You didn't even say goodbye."

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry. I was really confused. And afraid."

"Of me?" Peeta was incredulous.

"I've never been able to forget you, Peeta. I only intended on breezing in, giving you some publicity, then leaving again." She brushed her hands together, as if wiping him away. "I thought paying you back would get you out of my mind." Peeta flinched; that hurt to hear. He dropped his gaze to the bottle in his hands and swallowed back his disappointment.

"But then I got here," she continued. "And you were even nicer than I remembered. And…" He glanced up at the pause. She was biting her bottom lip, her cheeks were flaming. "And even more handsome. I didn't expect to be so attracted to you," she whispered.

They stared at each other, the air between them charged. Then Katniss began to squirm, as if embarrassed.

"I've had a crush on you for as long as I can remember," Peeta said, and Katniss's eyes widened.

"Me?" she squeaked.

"You really don't understand the effect you have on me. That's why I was such a doofus when you were at the bakery. I've never known how to talk to you."

"You did just fine," she smiled, tiny and tentative, but real. "I didn't want to leave. It, uh. Well, it scared the crap out of me. I'm not very good with people."

"You're here now," he said. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Katniss said. "But I want to find out."

She shuffled just a tiny bit closer to him, and he reached out a tentative hand to cup her face. Her eyes fluttered shut, thick black lashes brushing her cheek. When he finally pressed his lips against hers, she sighed, and in that tiny, involuntary noise he found certainty.

The kiss was slow, almost chaste, a teaser of what could be possible.

A slow smile spread across his face as he pulled back, staring into her hazy silver eyes. Was it possible, that they could be on the same page? But as quickly as the hope flared it his chest, it was extinguished. Katniss, Kat, had a life, a busy life full of travel and tapings and all of it far from sleepy District Twelve. What they shared at the bakery, what they were sharing now, that was all they'd ever get. His hand dropped into his lap, his eyes followed suit.

"I, um. I'm going to be producing the new show out of a little studio in Victor's Village," she said. "I signed the lease on the studio space three weeks ago." They were still so close that he could feel the words on his skin, a caress. A promise.

Victor's Village was only a twenty minute drive away. Peeta shook his head, certain he'd heard wrong. "I thought you lived in the Capitol?"

"I do, or, well, I did anyway," Katniss said. "I moved my mother there as soon as I could afford to. It was too hard for her, being in Twelve, surrounded by all of her memories." Katniss pursed her lips, and Peeta's eyes were drawn to them, plump and perfectly kissable. Lips he'd now tasted, after so many years of imagining. "But it's the opposite for me," she continued. "I hate the Capitol, I hate the noise and the crowds and the smell. Being back here, it made me realize how much I missed it. Missed home."

"You're going to be living in Victor's Village?" Peeta asked, still struggling to understand what was happening. Katniss shrugged.

"I was thinking twenty minutes isn't such a bad commute. Maybe…" she trailed off, then sighed. "Maybe it's time for me to come home, where I belong."

"To Twelve?" He could hardly breathe.

"I'd still have to travel a lot, for filmings. But yeah." She laughed. "The people here, they don't care about Kat Flickerman. To them, I'm Russ Everdeen's kid, not some hot shot television personality. I walked here, from your dad's party, and there was no paparazzi, no TMZ following my every move. There was just old Mr. Mitchell waving at me from his porch and asking after my mother."

This time, Katniss reached for him, her small hand cool against his feverish skin. "And you're here," she whispered, just before she kissed him. This time, he was the one moaning as her tongue curled around his own.

With a little tug, she was in his lap, and he marvelled at how perfectly her body fit against his, how right she felt in his arms. Kissing Katniss Everdeen was incredible, something he was certain he'd never get enough of.

"Peeta," she whispered against his lips. "I want-"

The door to the apartment crashed open, startling Peeta, pulling them apart. "Peet, why aren't you answering your phone? You'll never- oh." Rye stood before them, slack-jawed. Katniss buried her face in Peeta's shoulder, but he could feel her smile.

"Okay," Rye chuckled. "Yeah. This uh. This makes a lot of sense. I'll just…" He turned back towards the door.

"Rye," Peeta called before his brother could leave. "Is Dad okay?"

Rye glanced back over his shoulder and smiled. "Yeah, man. He really is. I'll tell you more later. Or tomorrow." And with one last laugh, he was gone.

"Cockblocked," Peeta groaned, and Katniss laughed, hugging him tightly. He stroked her hair as his heart rate slowed.

Peeta smiled down at the woman in his arms, who was still laughing softly. He kissed the tip of her nose. Though he longed to go right back to making out with her, he was grateful for the interruption. After waiting so long, they both deserved to do things right. "Have you eaten?" he asked. She shook her head. "Let me take you out for dinner," he said, the words he'd wanted to say all of those weeks ago.

"I'd like that," Katniss smiled.