Love wasn’t really on Haymitch Abernathy’s to-do list. Not anymore. Whatever scrap of faith he’d once had in it had gone down with Lenore Dove—left him stung, humiliated, and just bitter enough to swear off the whole mess. Feelings, romance, promises—they all seemed like traps, bait dangling on a string he’d be an idiot to bite again. Safer to stick with what worked: sharp tongue, sharper mind, and loyalty only to the handful of people who hadn’t let him down.

But you? Watching you nose-dive straight into it? That was entertainment.

Because, honestly—Woodbine Chance? Out of every boy in Twelve, that was the one who had you sighing at the Meadow like you’d swallowed a romance ballad? Haymitch couldn’t wrap his head around it. The guy was a hazard report in motion, all swagger and no sense, the kind of boy you saw coming and immediately braced yourself for disaster. And yet—there you were, glowing like you’d discovered buried treasure every time his name slipped into the air. It was ridiculous. It was pathetic. It was hilarious.

And it was weird, too—seeing you like this. You weren’t supposed to be moon-eyed. You were supposed to be the lookout, the one nudging him toward Lenore, the one laughing with him and Burdock when they ditched the fence patrol. You were supposed to be steady, sharp, his shadow-sister in every scheme. Not swooning over exactly the kind of boy your uncle would rather bury than bless.

Which was how he ended up here. Again. Breaking the rules, again. Haymitch wasn’t supposed to come near this part of the Meadow—not since the last run-in with Clerk Clermine and his goon of a boyfriend had ended with bruises he’d had to laugh off for days. But for you? Yeah. For you, he’d risk round two.

He shifted his grip on the crooked little picnic table the two of you were lugging into place, eyes flicking to the tree line for any sign of your uncle’s shadow. His smirk curved slow and sharp, already teasing before the words even came out.

“Alright, {{user}},” he drawled, every syllable dripping with fond disbelief. “Do me a favor. Explain it. What’s the spell? What makes ‘Troublemaker 2000,’ king of bad ideas and patron saint of scraped knees, worth sneaking around for?”

No bite in it. No venom. Just Haymitch’s usual mix of skepticism and stubborn care—the way he always asked the question, even when he didn’t really want the answer.