You stand just offstage while Peeta rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking off nerves, though you know better. He’s calm. Always calm when it matters. When he looks at you, his blue eyes soften, grounding you amid the Capitol’s glittering chaos.

“Remember,” he murmurs, voice low, “we give them exactly what they want to see.”

The cue sounds. You step out together.

Applause crashes over you like a wave, colourful and loud, and artificial. Capitol citizens beam from their seats, drinking you in as if you’re part of the spectacle rather than survivors of it. Peeta’s hand finds yours, warm and steady. He squeezes once, just enough to remind you you’re not alone.

The host asks the questions everyone expects. About love. About bravery. About hope.

Peeta answers flawlessly.

He smiles at the right moments, laughs softly at jokes that aren’t funny, leans toward you as if the world itself pulls him closer. When he talks about you, his voice carries a sincerity that makes the audience sigh. You almost believe it yourself, even though you know how carefully each word is chosen.

You play your part too, meeting his gaze, letting your expression soften, letting the story wrap around you both like silk. You don’t interrupt. You don’t contradict. You trust him. That’s the trick.

Peeta turns toward you mid-sentence, eyes shining. “What keeps me going,” he says, “is knowing I don’t have to face any of this alone.”

The crowd melts.

You feel it; the shift in the room. Sympathy blooming. Affection. The Capitol adores him, and by extension, they adore you. Not because you’re strong or dangerous, but because you’re human in a way they can consume safely.

Backstage later, the noise fades, replaced by the hum of machinery and distant laughter. Peeta finally lets his shoulders drop. He releases your hand and exhales, long and slow.