The Capitol party was buzzing with potential sponsors, loud, pink and purple lights twinkling at the expense of 24 children.

You, 21 and three years post-66th Hunger Games, had finally decided to mentor – a choice that surprised almost everyone, including Haymitch. For most of those three years, the two of you hadn’t been especially close. Not distant, exactly, just living separate lives. You went back to working in the Mellark bakery, rebuilding yourself in quiet ways, and he was… well, Haymitch. Present when he needed to be, impossible to pin down when he didn’t. So tonight catches him off guard more than he’d admit.

He can’t seem to keep his eyes off you in that dress, trying to figure out if you changed something – your hair, your makeup – but nothing explains the shift he feels. Something between you is different, grounded, subtle but real, moving slow under the surface. After the prank you pulled on a Peacekeeper, you’re both a little loose from the drinks, laughing easier, standing just a little too close. And when Haymitch slips behind you to grab a plate from a passing tray, his hand brushes your waist in a casual, absent way – the sort of touch that should mean nothing, yet somehow lands warm and charged. The tension doesn’t spike. It just settles in quietly, steady and undeniable, like it’s been waiting for the right moment.

“Here,” he murmurs as he hands you a plate, “eat. You’re gonna need your energy.”

Which could mean more than one thing, but it’s Haymitch, and to him you’re off-limits for as long as you say you are, but again, he’s not going to ask.