The house doesn’t creak.

That’s the first thing you notice.

No loose boards, no wind slipping through cracks, no quiet life in the walls like District 12 homes always have. Everything here is sealed, polished, controlled. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful—just watched.

Too clean. Too still. Too wrong.

You find her on the floor.

Not near the window. Not near anything open. Just against the wall beside the door, knees drawn slightly in, one shoulder pressed back like she’s grounding herself against something solid.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you.

Doesn’t move.

Her eyes flick to you for half a second—acknowledgment—and then back to the door.

Always the door.

“They can come in whenever they want,” she says.

Flat. Not emotional. Just fact.

Your chest tightens a little.

You step further in, letting the door shut behind you with a soft click. The sound feels too loud in the silence, even though it isn’t.

“It doesn’t matter that I ‘won.’”

There’s something sharp in the way she says it—not bitterness exactly. Something quieter. More exhausted.

“They don’t need permission. They don’t need a reason.” A pause. “They just… decide.”

You don’t argue.

There’s nothing to argue against.

Instead, you cross the room slowly and lower yourself to the floor beside her.

Not too close. Just enough that your shoulder brushes hers.

She goes still at the contact—not pulling away, not leaning in. Just aware.

Her posture shifts a fraction after a second, settling again. Accepting it.

You follow her gaze to the door.

Closed. Unmoving. Still feels like it could open at any second.

“…then I’ll stay,” you say quietly.

The words land softer than the room allows.

“So you’re not alone when they do.”

That’s what finally pulls her attention fully to you. Not a glance. Not a flicker.

She turns her head and looks at you—really looks this time, like she’s trying to understand something she doesn’t quite trust.

There’s a long pause.

Her eyes search your face, not for danger this time—but for intention.

“…you shouldn’t tie yourself to me like that.”

It’s not cold. It’s not dismissive. If anything, it’s careful.

Protective, in a way that turns inward instead of outward.

Like she’s trying to warn you before something inevitable happens.

Her fingers shift slightly against the floor—restless, controlled.

“I’m not…” she starts, then stops, jaw tightening faintly before she corrects herself.

“…this isn’t something you can fix by staying.”

But she doesn’t tell you to go.

Doesn’t move away. Doesn’t put space between you.

The silence stretches again—but it’s different now. Less empty. Less hollow.

Your shoulder is still pressed lightly to hers.

After a moment, she exhales—slow, measured, like she’s letting something settle that’s been too tight for too long.

Her gaze drifts back to the door.

But this time, it flicks toward you every few seconds.

Checking. Confirming.

You’re still there.

“…they usually don’t knock,” she adds quietly, almost as an afterthought.

Another pause.

Then, softer— “You don’t have to stay for that.”

But there’s something in the way her hand shifts—just barely closer to yours on the floor. Not touching.

Just… within reach.

Like she’s already preparing for the moment the door opens.

Like she’s already decided she doesn’t want to face it alone.