After the rebellion

2 years

*Katniss Pov*

The house smells like cinnamon and warm sugar. Sunlight slides in through the kitchen windows, soft and golden, brushing over the floorboards.

 I'm still in my robe, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, watching the steam curl into the morning air.

Peeta's already been up for hours. He's elbow-deep in dough at the counter, flour dusting his arms.

 He hums, something quiet and cheerful that Willow usually babbles along with. It's hard not to smile at the sound.

I hear her coming before I see her — the soft shuffle of bare feet, the trailing whisper of her blanket dragging on the floor. 

She appears in the doorway a moment later, hair sticking up in wild directions, cheeks pink from sleep.

"Cake?" she says, voice small, hopeful.

Peeta turns and grins. "Later, lovebug. We have to save it for after lunch, remember?"

She nods like she understands, which she probably doesn't. She's only two. But she climbs up onto her stool without fuss and reaches for the bowl of sprinkles like she's been waiting her whole life for this moment.

She doesn't speak much. Not yet. A few words here and there, some made-up ones only she understands. But she listens. Watches. Takes everything in. Like me.

Peeta hands her a tiny wooden spoon and shows her how to scatter sprinkles across the little cake they baked yesterday.

 It's a mess, too many in one spot, none in another, but she's proud. Her face is lit up in that way that only toddlers can manage. Pure joy, no filter.

I sip my tea and watch the two of them work together. It's quiet, comfortable. The kind of morning I never imagined having.

Buttercup hops up onto the windowsill and glares at all of us like we've ruined his peaceful existence. Willow notices him instantly and jabs a finger toward him.

"Cup!"

He yowls in protest but doesn't move. She giggles.

"He tolerates her," I say.

Peeta chuckles. "He tolerates you."

Fair enough.

There's a knock at the front door, then it creaks open without permission — as usual.

"Happy birthday to the tiny dictator!" Johanna's voice barrels into the kitchen, followed by the thud of boots and the unmistakable rustle of a paper bag being dropped onto the table. 

"Where's the coffee?"

"She's two," I mutter.

"Exactly. Prime age for a power trip."

David follows behind her, carrying balloons in one hand and a wrapped box in the other. He gives me a small nod. "Morning, Katniss."

"Morning," I reply.

Willow peeks at them from behind Peeta's legs, chewing on the edge of her blanket. She doesn't talk to them. Not yet. She takes her time with people. I like that about her.

Johanna leans over to ruffle her hair, and Willow flinches back, burying her face in Peeta's apron.

"Still shy," Johanna says. "Definitely yours."

Before I can respond, the front door swings open again. Gale and Claudine step inside, both slightly out of breath from chasing Hunter, who zooms past them like a rocket.