He always comes to my family's shop on Sunday, when the drowsy late afternoon hovers over the mountains like warm breath. Over the past few years, Clay's arrangement with my father has become the only distinct part of my week. The days blur into one monotonous expanse of time, punctuated only by his visits.

My relationship with Clay Everdeen could hardly even be called a relationship. Once a week, he strolls into my family's apothecary with his foraging sack, looking to trade his wild herbs for coins, or, occasionally, medicine. I can't imagine who the supplements could be for, as Clay is always the picture of health. He never misses a Sunday visit, even when the winter snow makes a thick blanket over all the green the mountains have to offer. Even then, he finds something—pine needles, maybe—to bring my family.

We hardly speak, as I am under direct orders of not interrupting business transactions, but he did give me a gift once. It was two springs ago, when I was fifteen, a week after my grandmother died. After making his trade with my father, Clay furtively clasped the freshest lily I'd ever seen into my hand, and his Seam-gray eyes held an intensity I had never before and never again seen in him. I pressed the lily in one of our larger, dustier plant books, a child hiding some priceless treasure.

I don't know when or why I started feeling different toward Clay. As I grew older, I discovered that I was subconsciously doing things to please him: wearing my nicest dresses on Sunday mornings, volunteering to mop the floors on Saturday evenings. My father has always said that I am a dedicated worker, but even he is perplexed by this initiative. My mother knows better, unfortunately.

"My, Alyssum, don't you look pretty today," she calls to me in a singsong voice as I walk in the front door of our shop. Maysilee and I had spent the morning in the Meadow, braiding clover and daisies in each other's hair, hiding away from the duties awaiting us in our homes.

Though Maysilee is my closest friend, I can't help but envy her at times. Maysilee, with her adoring sister, while I am an only child. Maysilee, with her sweet-shop home that smells of honey and chocolate, while mine reeks of boiled herbs and wounded men.

I murmur a thank you and lift a linen apron off its hook on the wall and tie it around my waist before approaching the stove, where my mother is stirring a concoction of raspberry leaves and ginger root.

"For nausea?" I ask.

My mother nods, furrowing her brow and gazing into the sweet smelling pot. "Mrs. Bracken has morning sickness." Her voice is distant. I am not changing the subject so easily, it seems. "I see you're wearing your blue lace dress. Is there some special occasion I don't know about?" She gives me a long, suspicious look from the corner of her eye, white-blond eyebrows raised.

I am impressed with my ability to lie. "I went to church with Maysilee this morning," I say evenly.

"Oh? And what did Mr. Mason speak about today?"

"Charity."

My family is not spiritual, and neither am I. In history class, we were taught about our religious ancestors, who fought wars and slaughtered men on the behalf of their gods. Panem has no gods. In District Twelve, we have one church, and its caretaker, Mr. Mason, speaks weekly on various disembodied virtues. Charity, chastity, honesty. I have only been to the church a handful of times in my life, always with Maysilee's family. Some people need spirituality to cope with life, even those who pull taffy for a living.

I am instructed to go water the potted flowers on our front stoop. While all the useful, practical herbs are grown in our small backyard, we do have a collection of pansies out front to give a welcoming appearance. I take up the tin watering can and go outside, glad to be free of my mother's questions. The outdoor air is thick with summer sweetness, and I move my braid to protect my neck from the strong sunlight. I plunge my finger in the dark, potted soil, checking its dryness, before extracting it and wiping it clean on my apron.

"Alyssum Sorrel," says a voice behind me, playful and deep, and I jump.

Clay Everdeen is standing at the foot of the stoop with his telltale burlap sack in hand and a wide grin on his suntanned face. Perched at the top of the stairs, I can make eye contact with him without looking up as I usually do. Clay is tall and willowy, as opposed to my petite, almost childlike build.

"Are you sure it's wise to carry around a game bag so obviously?" I ask. The Peacekeepers have been brutal lately.

"What game bag?" He replies with a sheepish look. "This is just a bunch of parsley from the Meadow! I picked it for the fine people of this establishment." He makes a grand, sweeping bow in my direction, and I feel my cheeks grow hot as I shake my head and chuckle.

I lead him inside, and my father comes downstairs to talk business. Unlike other families who deal in food, we have no baked goods or meat to trade for Clay's herbs, so we pay him in actual money—though surprisingly little, as his prices are low. My father appraises the various herbs Clay has gathered: peppermint, foxglove, bee balm, and two types of leaves I am unfamiliar with. I watch as Clay's rough, miner's hands extract the delicate flowers from his bag deftly, placing them on the wooden counter as he makes small talk with my parents.

"How are the mines treating you, Clay?" my father asks. This is only Clay's second month working in there. I silently wonder if that question is rude, or if we know Clay well enough to ask such a thing.

"Can't complain, Mr. Sorrel," he replies good-naturedly, apparently not bothered. "And how's this place treating you?"

"Can't complain, can't complain."

Before I know it, my father is placing coins in his tan palm and they say their goodbyes, shaking hands and nodding at each other. Clay throws his bag over his shoulder and approaches me, or, rather, the door, as I haven't moved from it since escorting him inside. My hand is beginning to spasm from clutching the heavy watering can.

"Alyssum, don't let them work you too hard," he wisecracks, observing the dirt on my apron, and he ambles out the door.

My face is as red as a strawberry.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Giving credit where credit is due, I took Alyssum's name from Mejhiren's When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun, probably my favorite fic of all time.

Wanted: Beta reader! Must be well-versed in the HG fandom, a bit grammar crazy, and very speedy (because I am an impatient dork). I am a great internet friend, I swear, PM me and find out!