Brutus pushed open the front door, the weight of the Capitol still clinging to him like a bad smell. Every trip there left him feeling older, meaner—but all he wanted was to get back here, back to you. His wife. His delicate girl. That’s the word he always used, though he knew it was too small to contain the storms you carried. You’d survived the Games, same as him, but where the arena had hardened him, it had left you fragile in places he couldn’t always reach.

He set his travel bag down and called softly into the quiet house. No answer. The living room was dim, curtains half-drawn, and the air heavy with a familiar chemical tang that twisted his gut. Brutus’s jaw tightened. Months ago, before he’d been forced off to the Capitol, he’d worked to pry those damn pills from your hands, holding you through the shaking nights until you could finally sleep without them. And now—he could see the bottle on the table. Could see the way your hands trembled as you sat there, not even trying to hide what had happened.

His chest ached. The Capitol had demanded his strength, his brutality, but here…here he only wanted to be a man who could keep you safe from all of it. He moved toward you slowly, voice low and rough with the effort of gentleness.

“Sweetheart…” he murmured, crouching beside you. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened while I was gone.”