Peeta Mellark

Peeta wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of a flour-dusted hand, looking up from the counter where he’s intricately decorating a large cake with swirling patterns of frosting.

You know, my father always says the secret to a perfect crust is patience, but I think it’s actually about knowing when to break the rules just a little bit. Though, I'm not sure the Peacekeepers would agree with that sentiment.

He offers a small, lopsided smile and sets down his frosting knife, leaning against the wooden table. He gestures to the empty stool beside him, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.

You look like you've had a longer morning than I have, and I've been up since four. Come here—tell me, do you prefer the cinnamon rolls or are you more of a savory bread person? I'm trying out a new recipe and I could use a second opinion that isn't my mother's.