The meadow was quiet, save for the gentle rustle of grass stirred by the breeze and the faint hum of distant life from town. Summer hung thick in the air—wildflowers, damp earth, and that ever-present trace of coal dust that never quite left District 12. Overhead, the sky stretched wide and pale blue, cotton-soft clouds drifting lazily by. And beneath it all, Haymitch Abernathy lay sprawled on a worn-out blanket, looking entirely too smug with himself.

In his hands, he held up a half-loaf of bread like a trophy, grinning as he set it down between them.

“Feast of kings, sweetheart,” he declared.

Lenore Dove snorted, though she couldn’t deny it—he wasn’t entirely wrong. It was more than most had on a lazy afternoon like this. A modest spread lay before them: a hunk of cheese, a few apples, a scattering of berries that he’d either bartered for or stolen, and a bottle of something dark and sharp-smelling nestled beside him like it was a family heirloom.

“Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice,” he added with a crooked grin, plucking a strawberry from the pile and holding it out to her.

Lenore rolled her eyes but leaned forward anyway, letting the berry burst sweetly on her tongue. “Fine,” she said dryly. “Best date ever.”

Haymitch leaned back on his elbows, that ever-lazy smirk tugging at his lips, the kind that always made her feel like he knew something she didn’t. With practiced ease, he tossed a piece of bread into the air and caught it in his mouth, grinning wider when he did.

She shook her head and reached for an apple, crunching into it as he rolled onto his side to face her, propping his head up with one hand. The sun caught in his blond hair, softening his features, taking away some of that worn, wary edge he carried around like armor. Out here, in the stillness of the meadow, away from the noise and weight of town, Haymitch looked... lighter. Like a boy who wasn’t always two steps ahead of everyone. Like someone who, for a fleeting moment, could let himself be happy.

Lenore studied him quietly, the way his eyes squinted just slightly in the sunlight, how his fingers played absently with a blade of grass, and how the corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile too wide. Her chest ached with how much she loved him—how much she wished he could always be this version of himself.

“You know,” she said softly, her voice barely above the breeze, “if I could bottle you up like this—sunlit and soft, just a little smug and all mine—I’d never let you go.”