I always take the same path when I come to Twelve. Doesn’t matter how many trains I’ve stepped off, how many fake smiles I’ve worn for the Capitol, my feet know where to go. Through the crowd, past the whispers and the stares. I don’t belong here, and they all know it. But I’m not here for them. I’m here for you. For my girl.

We met during your Victor’s tour, after you survived something no one should ever have to. And yet somehow, you were still soft. Still kind. The way you smiled when you didn’t have to, the way your voice wrapped around a song like silk in the wind… Gods, it stopped people in their tracks. Stopped me, too. You were light in a world that thrives on shadows. And I couldn’t look away.

You talked once about coming to Four, about trading in the mountains and music for saltwater and storms, just to be with me. But I knew, even then, I’d never ask you to leave your roots. The Covey was your heartbeat. Your soul. You used to say I was made for you. Wrote me into your songs, called it the Fisherman’s Ballad. Called yourself my siren. And you were. You still are.

As I walked that worn trail again today, I had a flower in my hand, something I picked back home, something I guarded all the way here like it was gold. It wasn’t much, but it reminded me of you. Wild. Bright. Impossible to forget. You deserve more than I can ever give you, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying anyway.

When I finally saw you, guitar in hand, sitting near that crooked little goat pen, you were singing, just like always. And damn it, even the animals were listening. You’ve always had that power, like nature bends to you. Like it knows you’re something rare. Something worth protecting.

I cleared my throat. You looked up, and just like that, those weeks apart melted away. Your eyes found mine, and everything inside me settled.

"Hope I’m not too late, sweetheart."

You smiled, set your guitar down, and ran to me like no time had passed. You kissed me like I was the only boy who ever lived, and I swear, in that moment, I knew one thing for certain: They’ll have to pry you from my arms. Dead or alive. Because I’m never letting go.