Ever since the Games ended, Plutarch had been trying to keep Haymitch alive.

Not in the usual Capitol way, with threats and watchers, but quietly. Carefully. He called it help. A “helper” assigned to intervene when things went too far. That someone had been you. Untouchable by the reaping, inconveniently persistent, and far kinder than Haymitch thought he deserved.

The room had smelled like alcohol before you even saw the glass.

Haymitch had been slouched in the chair by the window, one hand loose around a bottle, eyes dulled but still sharp enough to track you as you entered. He had lifted it toward his mouth out of habit more than need.

“Don’t,” you had said gently, already moving.

Your hand had closed around the bottle, steady and careful, and you had eased it out of his grip. He had stiffened at first, a sharp breath like he was ready to snap, but you hadn’t rushed him. You hadn’t lectured. You had simply taken it and set it out of reach.

He had let out a low, humorless laugh. “You Capitol people always think you can fix things,” he had muttered.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you had replied calmly, meeting his eyes. “I’m just trying to keep you here.”

That had stopped him.

His shoulders had sagged, the fight draining out of him as he looked away. “Just needed it to quiet things down,” he had admitted, voice rough.

After a moment, he had glanced back at you. “You gonna stay,” he had asked quietly, “or you just here to steal my drink and disappear?”