AN - My father didn't grow up with very much. About 10 years ago, he decided he didn't want my husband and me to pay the money to ship a gift halfway across Canada to his door. Instead, he wanted us to donate what would have spent on his gift to a children's charity. He does the same for us. Thus began our annual tradition of choosing gifts for needy kids off the angel tree at our local mall. This story is inspired by our tradition. And by my Peeta, who has become so invested in the project that he motivates his students to purchase gifts as well. Over the last three years about 200 kids have benefited from their work.

The incessant beeping of the back alarm is making my skin crawl, but I still manage to get the cargo van aligned with the receiving doors at the back of the little bakery in Panem's downtown. When they finally disappear from sight in my side mirror, I shift the van into neutral and set the parking brake.

Normally, I'm busy packing hampers during my Saturday volunteer shift at the Seam Street Food Bank, but Mags, the manager, had been frantic this morning. Haymitch, her usual truck driver had called in sick, which really meant drunk. Without him, Mags had no one to pick up the Saturday donations. So, I've been spending my time, backing up to door after door as Panem's local restaurants and grocery stores pass on perfectly good food that they'd just be tossing in the trash because it's not quite as fresh as their customers demand.

Had it not been for the food bank a few years ago, I'd have been digging through the dumpsters of every one of these establishments, trying to put enough food on the table to keep my little sister and I fed. My mother was a lost cause, too busy spending our meagre welfare cheque on booze to make sure we got something to eat. I guess I was just lucky Mags didn't ask questions the first time I went into the old warehouse on Seam Street and signed up for a hamper. Or she'd seen it so many times that she knew reporting my situation to the authorities was likely to make my life worse instead of better. Either way, she and her food bank saved me and my sister. Every Saturday since I got a job and got out on my own, I've spent a little time packing hampers, trying to pay her back for what she did for me.

The holidays are the busiest time of year at the food bank. Not because there are suddenly more poor people. It's just that all of the sudden, the not-so-poor people decide they need to give more to charity to make up for the ridiculous amounts they're spending on stuff they don't need. Mags makes sure to stow away the canned goods and frozen foods for the lean months in February and March when everybody's credit card bills have rolled in and they're too pinched for cash to remember that human beings need to eat every day and not just at Christmas.

I take a quick glance at the list on the clipboard Mags gave me. Mellark's Bakery. Well, it looks like I'm in the right place. I guess the baker must have made too many cookies this week. Or some bread is about to go stale that can't be sold to paying customers. Our clients won't complain. Slightly stale bread toasts just fine. Throw on some peanut butter for protein and you've got a happy, reasonably well-fed kid. I snatch up the receipt book, just in case the baker wants one for his unsalable goods, and do a quick check in the rearview mirror. Can't represent the food bank with something stuck in my teeth. I stare back at my reflection. My grey eyes look clear. My braid is neat. Nothing stuck between my teeth. Since I don't look like I've been hit by the ugly stick, I jump down from the cab, my breath swirling in the crisp, winter air.

The sound of my hiking boots crunching on the packed snow echoes through the alleyway as I make my way to open the van before banging on the bakery's back door. I only have to give a few swift knocks before I hear someone snapping open the locks on the other side of the door. The door swings wide and I'm face to face with the bluest eyes I've ever seen, set in one hell of a handsome face topped by wavy blonde hair. That face is the picture of surprise at the moment. I guess the baker was expecting Haymitch.

"I'm from the food bank?"

The eyes blink twice and then he manages to flash me a blinding smile full of straight white teeth. "Oh! Great! I'm Peeta Mellark." He sticks out his hand. "I'm glad you're here." I wait for him to open the door to let me in, but instead he steps outside. He's still in his shirt sleeves, but he doesn't seem cold. "They're up in the apartment," he says, as though that explains something I should already know. He starts climbing a wooden staircase that runs between the bakery door and a second door. He stops about halfway up. "Aren't you coming?"

"Into your apartment?" I wait for him to figure out why that's not on.

He reddens a bit and rubs his hand over his hair, making it stand up in spots. "I'm not a creep, I swear. I mean, I was expecting a guy. She said Haystack, or something, was coming to pick them up."

I guess he's got a point, but I'm stubborn. "Not today. Can't you just bring whatever it is down?"

He sort of laughs. "Why don't you just come and see for yourself?"

I can't help it. I'm not exactly a shrinking violet and he's piqued my curiosity as to what this is all about, so I huff and start stomping up the steps behind behind him. He leads the way, which gives me a close up view of his very fine ass, nicely rounded underneath his shapeless white pants. I don't have long to admire the view, however. In less than a minute, we're standing at the top of the stairs and he's opening the door to the apartment. We step inside and I immediately understand the problem. Every surface of the apartment is covered in brightly wrapped packages topped with shiny bows. Each package also sports an angel-shaped tag, bearing the a child's first name and their Christmas wish.

Every year, the food bank encourages its clients to make a wish for each of their children on one of those tags and they're hung on a Christmas tree in the mall. Shoppers pick them up off the tree, and then return the gift to the food bank. I can't say for sure, but by my estimation, this guy has single-handedly fulfilled the wishes of at least 100 kids who wouldn't be getting anything for Christmas otherwise. I should know, I wrote my little sister's name on those tags every year and then crossed my fingers for the kindness of strangers.

"How many?" I blurt out. The real question is why he did it, but that question seems a little too personal to be asking someone I just met.

"One hundred and forty-two," he tells me, and if there's a trace of pride in his voice, I don't hear it..

I'm not sure why this stop was last on my list. The old cube van is already about half full with my other pick-ups. Mags must have known what I was picking up here. There's no way she wouldn't have noticed one person had committed to granting so many angel tree wishes. "I can get about half of them in the van now," I tell him. "I'll have to come back for the rest."

The guy, I think he said his name was Peeta, nods quickly and sweeps a pile from the table top into his arms. I grab another pile off a nearby couch and we start back down the stairs. He holds the door and I lead the way down the stairs, finally stopping in front of the open van to load in the presents.

I realize then, that in order to load the van properly, one of us is going to have to wait inside the van to stack the gifts while the other brings them downstairs; otherwise, we'll be climbing in and out of the van all afternoon.

Peeta recognizes the problem at the same moment. He puts down his load of gifts and gives me a bright smile. "I'll go for the next load, while you pack these. Deal?"

"Sure." I climb into the van and begin sorting the presents into piles. I decide to use the larger ones to form a base layer and set the small ones off to the side where they won't get damaged.

Before long, Peeta returns with another armload. "Here are some more, um-" I can feel the corners of my mouth turning up I as gather the stack into my own arms, but a little wrinkle forms between his brows. "I don't think I actually got your name."

"Katniss," I tell him, going back to playing Tetris with the gifts. I suppose it's rude not to introduce myself properly. "Katniss Everdeen."

"Katniss?" He sounds surprised and I tense, waiting for him to react to the unusual name my father chose for me. "Like the plant? Nice."

I give him a quick look and he's sporting a little smile with just the right touch of shyness, that makes it impossible to look away. "You know what a Katniss plant is?"

He shrugs. "Sure, I'm a baker. I have a book of all different sorts of plants. I sculpt flowers for wedding cakes all the time."

I think of the simple blossom on my namesake plant. "Can't be much call for Katniss cakes."

His hand rubs against the back of his neck and I wonder if he's getting cold. He's still not wearing a coat. "No, but I flip by it all the time on my way to the lilies." I nod in understanding and his hand falls to his side. "I'll just, ah, get some more presents." He shuffles away and I crawl out of the van to make more room. After a couple more loads, it's as full I as I feel is safe. I slam the van's rear doors closed.

"I'll be back," I tell him, and he's just goofy enough to reply with a Terminator impression. I can't help but laugh. "Give me an hour and we'll get the rest of them loaded up."

A few minutes later, I'm driving back through the city, once again grinding my way through the gears of this old van and hoping it holds together long enough for me to finish the gift delivery.

Mags meets me in the loading bay of the food bank. She gives me a cheery wave when I jump down from the van. I don't know how the older woman manages to maintain such a positive attitude when she spends day after day in this place with all she has to deal with.

"You should have warned me about what was at the bakery," I complain as I open the van doors.

Mags rolls her eyes and waves me off. She had a stroke last year and while she gets around just fine with the help of a cane, she lost her ability to speak.

"I'm serious, Mags, I would have done things differently had I known."

The old woman holds up two fingers.

"I know I would have had to make two trips anyway, that's not my point."

Mags crooks her finger at me, indicating I should follow and heads for the doors. Her long grey hair is tied up today and trailing over her back. She stops on the threshold and points at two teenagers lounging against the building, cigarettes smouldering between their fingers, their expensive brand name jackets hanging open. They're not clients. Mags never says, but we often have this type around the food bank. Working off their court appointed community service, I presume. She snaps her fingers at them and then points at the van. Marvel and Cato, at least I think that's their names, put out their cigarettes and slouch off to do her bidding.

The warehouse is a hive of activity. Effie Trinket's shrill voice carries from the back right corner. Effie's been a food bank volunteer for as long as I've been coming here. With brassy gold hair that can't possibly be real and sporting more makeup than any woman ought to wear, Effie is a force to be reckoned with. She's managing the angel tree program this year, and from the looks of things, she's got everything organized to the enth. Mags waves to Effie on her way to her office and gets a cheerful greeting in return. We pass rack after rack of shelving units. The macaroni and cheese section looks particularly loaded down right now. The tables where volunteers pack the hampers that go home with the clients are nearby. On the left, near the front doors, Chaff and Seeder are in the soup kitchen prepping for today's hot meal, like they do every Saturday.

Mags' office is in a closet-sized space near the front doors. I think it was where the factory workers used to punch in before heading out onto the floor to work. She snatches a small whiteboard off her desk.

So you met Peeta?

"Yes, Mags, I met him."

Handsome.

She can say that again. "Yeah, I guess."

Mags' eyes are dancing as she erases her board. My second favourite volunteer, she scrawls.

Seriously? If cheerful, kind - and okay, yes, gorgeous - Peeta Mellark, with his sky blue eyes and sexy jaw is her second favourite volunteer, who would qualify as her favourite?

"He volunteers here? How come I've never seen him around?"

Mags shakes her head and picks up her marker again. He's here on Thursdays. Soup kitchen. She holds the board up so I can read it. When I nod in understanding, she erases it and starts over. Always a long line for his cooking.

I snort. "Figures."

Mags chuckles and erases her board again. Lots of women here on Thursdays.

This conversation is annoying. "Well, I should go see if those two slackers have got the van unloaded. I told your favourite volunteer I'd be right back."

Mags shakes two fingers in my direction. "Right," I recall. "Second favourite. Be back soon, Mags."

She waves me off. When I come back into the main room, I find Effie practically having an orgasm over Peeta's wrapping job.

"Oh Katniss," she enthuses. "So few people appreciate that it's the little things that make the difference. A child in need has as much need to be recognized as someone special as anyone else, to know that someone cares enough to make things nice for them. Oh!" She wipes a tear from her eye and holds up a brightly wrapped package topped in a hand-tied scarlet bow. "Look at this! It's a work of art."

Clearly, Effie Trinket has no idea what a 'child in need' actually needs, but I decide to let it slide since her heart is in the right place.

"Pretty," I agree. "Well, I better go get the rest of them."

"There's more?" Effie is truly beside herself now. "Oh Katniss, think of the children!"

I shoot Effie a grimace wrapped in a smile, shake the keys to the van at her and head for the back door. The layabouts seem to have found a new hiding spot, at least but the van is empty. I fire it up and head back across town.

I've barely backed up to the bakery and Peeta is throwing open the door, a delighted smile on his face. As I approach, I see that his blue eyes are twinkling.

"You've got perfect timing," he calls as I open the back door of the van. "I've just flipped over the closed sign for the day."

Now that I know this guy has Mags' seal of approval, I'm more than ready to help him carry the gifts down from the apartment.

I start for the stairs, but Peeta appears in the bakery doorway, his arms full of gifts. I notice a blue and silver bow and envision Effie's reaction. I don't realize I'm scowling until he does a double take and shrugs good-naturedly. "I brought them down already. I thought it would save time."

I hold out my arms and he passes the load off to me to stow in the van. The process goes much more smoothly with an empty van and we are soon moving swiftly past each other to pack the parcels inside. Well, I'm moving swiftly. Peeta seems to be limping.

"Hold up," My hand closes around his rock-hard biceps. Who would have thought a baker would have arms like that? "Are you okay?"

His brow furrows. "Sure. Why?"

I give his leg a pointed look.

"Oh, he says. "Old injury. It gets aggravated when I overdo it." He turns his back and shuffles back into the bakery kitchen.

I want to kick myself. Of course that's why he asked for our van and needed help bringing them down the stairs. Thanks to me, this poor guy has made about 50 trips up and down the stairs today that he didn't need to make.

"You should have told me," I grumble as we sweep the last of the gifts into our arms and head back outside.

He stops and gives me an odd look as he stands at the van doors. "Crawling on my knees in the van wouldn't have been any better for it Katniss. And I'm the one who decided to bring the rest down. You didn't ask me to do that."

I put my load down. "Because I balked at going upstairs."

Peeta stows his pile. "Well, that was a little of it. Mostly, I was hoping to save a little time."

I'm still frowning when I slam the van doors closed, but Peeta has his hands in his pockets and a slight smile on his lips. His wavy blonde locks have fallen into his eyes and he reminds me of little boy trying to charm himself out of trouble.

"Have you got a few minutes? I make the best hot chocolate in town."

I check my watch, but it's not like I have to hurry back. The food bank will be open for hours yet, and it might be Saturday, but I don't have any plans this evening. So, I shrug and agree.

Peeta's smile transforms into a toothy grin and he leads the way back into the bakery. The kitchen is spotlessly clean. Every stainless steel surface is sparkling and while the ovens are clearly off. The heat in here is a startling difference from being outside for the last half hour. No wonder Peeta was loading gifts in his shirt sleeves.

He leads the way out into the cheerful storefront and moves toward an espresso machine where he heats the milk. Before long, two piping hot chocolates are steaming away in colourful mugs on the counter.

"The secret," he confides, "is in the quality of the chocolate and real whipped cream." He pulls a little container from the fridge. "Chocolate I grated this morning," he explains as he sprinkles it on top. He passes me a mug and waves me toward a couple of cafe tables set up under a colourful painting not far from the cash. Once we've settled in, he smiles at me and holds up his mug, "to a job well done."

With a hear, hear, I clink my mug against his. I take a sip of the hot chocolate and don't quite manage to stifle a groan. "You're right," I tell him. "This is the best hot chocolate I've ever had."

Peeta smiles brightly at me and then chuckles. He leans across the table. "You have a little…" He flicks my nose and holds up his finger. A little blob of whipped cream sits on the pad. He pops it in his mouth and grins.

I don't know whether to laugh or scowl, but I feel a blush stealing across my cheeks so choose the latter.

He laughs. "I can't help but tease you, Katniss. Your reactions are priceless."

"And here I was thinking you might be one of the good guys."

He puts his mug on the table and watches as it spins it between his fingers. "I try to be. My dad always said being a good man was the most important thing I could do with my life."

I recognize the tone. "When did you lose him?"

"This past summer," he sighs and rubs his hands on his thighs before sitting back in his chair. "Cancer."

"The first Christmas is rough," I tell him, sipping my hot chocolate and taking care to wipe my nose. "It's never easy, but it gets a little less hard every year."

He leans forward. "Did you lose your dad?"

I nod. "Hunting accident." It hurts even now to think of what happened, but I've had years of practice at disguising my feelings about it. My father was a hunting guide part-time to make extra money for our family. He was leading a group of guys from the Capitol out on a deer hunt. One of the idiots forgot to turn the safety on his gun. He got over-excited, mishandled the weapon and it went off. My dad got shot in the chest and he bled out before they could get him out of the woods. Our family was never the same after that.

"I'm sorry," Peeta offers, and for once, I know that it isn't a platitude. He understands exactly what it feels like to lose a parent.

"Thanks," I tell him. "I'm sorry for your loss too."

"This whole gift thing was about him," he confesses. "He was a big supporter of the food bank and the angel tree was really important to him. Each year he would take my older brothers and me to the mall. We each picked an angel off the tree and then Dad would take us shopping to fulfill the wish. He said it was our gift to him."

"Too bad there weren't more people like your dad," I remark. Peeta and I are about the same age. I wonder if he or his brothers ever took Prim's angel off the tree.

"He was special," Peeta agrees, and takes a sip of chocolate, watching me over the rim of the mug. "Once I grew up, we stopped buying gifts for each other and just did the angel tree. My brothers live out west and they do the same thing." I don't know what to say to that. I volunteer every week at the food bank, but this level of generosity is beyond what we usually see, even there, so I just nod and sip the rich nectar in my hand. "This year, it just seemed so incredibly sad that we wouldn't do it together, I decided I needed to do something to honour him."

"Well, you definitely did that. I'm sure he'd be very proud of you." The words burst from me, and I cringe inside at my unusual burst of sentimentality, but Peeta accepts my words graciously, his cheeks a little pinker than they were minutes before. "Seriously, Peeta, you've made a huge donation. I've never seen anything like it from a single person."

He shrugs. "I didn't pay it all out of pocket. I held a silent auction here in the bakery. Told people what I was doing in memory of Dad. It was just way more successful than I imagined."

I can just imagine the long list of bids on the auction items. There's no doubt of my mind that Peeta could charm people into parting with their hard-earned money.

I raise my mug to my lips only to find it empty and the corners of my mouth turn down in disappointment.

"I guess I should get going," I sigh as I rise from the table, pushing away the urge to linger. "Thank you for the hot chocolate." He waves that off as though it were nothing. "And on behalf of the food bank, thank you for your donation."

"My pleasure," he replies, "on both counts."

He collects the mugs and once we make our way into the kitchen, I head for the delivery door zipping up my jacket and adjusting my scarf. It's really going to suck to have to climb into that frigid truck after the warmth of bakery.

"Hey Katniss?"

I whip around to find Peeta massaging his neck, a shy smile on his rugged features. "Do you want to, uh, exchange numbers?" I'm so distracted by the butterflies winging around in my chest that I forget to answer. He begins to backpedal. "I mean, don't feel obligated or anything. But I feel like we made friends today. But I won't be hurt if you don't want-"

Friends. Of course he just wants to be friends. Why would a guy like him be interested in me? The butterflies come back to Earth and I pull my phone out of my pocket. "What's your number?" The smile returns to his face and he rattles it off while I punch it in. I type a quick 'It's Katniss' and press send.

When his phone chimes a second later, he pulls it from his pocket. "There you are," he says with a smile and with some quick flicks, adds me to his contacts. "You'll be sick of me in no time."