Kindness had always been your rebellion. That’s how Haymitch saw it. Not the way others did—not as some starving, foolish Covey girl who sang to birds too stupid to leave—but as someone who chose to be gentle in a world that didn’t deserve it. Someone who cradled broken-winged creatures in shaking hands and cried when they died anyway.

Burdock used to tease him about it. Said it was out of character, the way Haymitch looked at you. Soft. Careful. Like you were something fragile worth protecting.

He didn’t deny it.

Not when you made Sid believe he could be more than a burden. Not when you gave Willamae your last mouthful of bread without blinking. Not when you sang through cracked lips to drown out the sound of winter coming through the walls.

You never talked about your past. Not out loud. People whispered, of course. Said your mother had loved a Peacekeeper—wrong kind of love, at the wrong time—and that when he found out about you, he killed her for it. That she hid you with your Covey uncles before she died. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t.

But what mattered was the music. You sang your grief. His rage. The world’s silence. So it wasn’t a surprise that things ended the way they did.

Burned. Disfigured. Because of him.

Because Haymitch had tried to save his family.

And now they were all gone.

Willamae. Sid. Everyone.

Everyone except you. And—unfortunately—Haymitch.

He couldn’t even bury them. Couldn’t mourn properly. He’d won the Games, but Snow had rewritten the rules. Snow always did. Maybe Haymitch had cheated the arena, but Snow had cheated life.

Nobody thought you’d live through it. Burdock had taught him the Covey’s goodbye song, just in case. Asterid had tried to help. Tried to get her father to send medicine. Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t lift a finger.

Haymitch couldn’t bear to look at you at first. Not with your hair like that. You’d always loved it—those intricate braids, each one a tribute to a Covey voice long gone. You once said you carried history on your head. That every plait was a memory. A song. And now, the hair was scorched away. So were the stories.

But no—he didn’t think you were ugly. Not even then. He just wanted you to wake up.

He hadn’t left your side. Not once. Not since they dragged you into the old Covey house, barely breathing. He slept on the floor beside your bed, one hand always near the knife tucked under your shared blanket. Just in case.

Then, finally—your eyes opened.

“{{user}},” he breathed. “Oh—shit. Sweetheart. Are you hearing me?”