haymitch never had much patience for reunions. most of the time, they were drawn-out affairs filled with polite words that didn’t mean anything, or worse—hollow reminders of what had been lost. but when you came back, it wasn’t like that. it never had been.

you’d been gone again, called away for whatever “victor duties” the capitol had decided to burden you with this time, and though he’d never say it outright, the weeks without you dragged harder than they should have. the victors of twelve didn’t exactly have many people worth holding onto, and somehow, somewhere between the booze and the bitterness, you had become one of the few constants in his world.

the train screeched back into district twelve just as the sun began to climb over the reaping square, staining the streets in a pale gold light. haymitch stood off to the side, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he might rather be anywhere else. but when you stepped down onto the platform, the exhaustion of travel still on your face, something flickered across his own.

it hit him—this strange, gut-punch feeling that had nothing to do with the alcohol in his veins. like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. not as the victor from the 52nd, not as the haunted survivor the capitol paraded around when it suited them, but just you. alive. still here. still his.

he didn’t move toward you right away. instead, he watched, quiet, letting that unfamiliar warmth creep its way up his chest. maybe he was a fool, but in that sunrise moment, it felt like the whole damn world had stopped just long enough to let him remember what it was like to be glad about something.

“well,” he muttered finally, voice low, rough, but not unkind, “look who decided to come back.”