Haymitch Abernathy had never trusted stories that ended well.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of extra shifts down in the mines, lungs burning, shoulders aching, palms split open and re-split because gloves cost money he’d rather send home. Three weeks of standing straighter in Clerk Carmine’s parlor, like posture alone could scrub the Seam from his bones. Three weeks of biting back every sharp retort when her uncles examined him the way merchants examined bruised fruit.

And still, they looked at him like he’d tracked coal dust over their polished floors.

They kept Lenore Dove in the front room when he called. Always lamplight. Always lace curtains. Always one of them nearby, pretending not to listen.

The house was too careful. Shelves of old books lined the walls — real books, leather-spined and gold-lettered. Older than anything Greasy Sae could trade in the Hob. He didn’t know most of the titles. Didn’t know the fairy tales she referenced sometimes — Rapunzel, that was the tower girl. He’d forgotten once and she’d laughed softly, not unkindly.

He liked it better when she read to him anyway.

When her voice smoothed out the world’s edges and made even foolish stories feel sacred.

That was the problem.

Lenore felt breakable. Not weak — never weak — but precious in a way that made him hyper-aware of his rough hands and patched boots. The whole thing felt like spun glass. One wrong move and it would shatter.

Any day, Clerk Carmine could shut the door.

Any day, someone could decide Haymitch Abernathy wasn’t fit to court her.

Was he really such a sorry excuse for a suitor?

So what if he wasn’t a merchant’s son with soft palms and ink-stained fingers? He worked. He could fix a roof beam, mend a hinge, stretch rations, carry weight.

He liked her.

Wasn’t that supposed to count?

Today, when he knocked, his heart hammered like it wanted out of his ribs.

Hands scrubbed raw. Trousers patched but neat. Waistcoat brushed clean. In his grip, a small bouquet of late-season wildflowers he and Burdock had “borrowed” from near the creek — already drooping in the heat.

The door opened.

Not Clerk Carmine.

Lenore.

She slipped out quickly, pulling the door nearly shut behind her before anyone else could appear. Afternoon light caught in her dark hair, loose around her shoulders. She wasn’t dressed up — just a simple dress, sleeves rolled, like she’d been helping in the kitchen.