Plutarch wouldn’t shut up. Not about strategy. Not about optics. And definitely not about who’d climbed into his bed this week.

Capitol actors. Ex-Gamemakers. A stylist who glittered in places glitter had no business being.

Haymitch had heard it all — repeatedly, loudly, and with enough anatomical precision to qualify as a war crime.

Even Chaff — who once stumbled through an entire Reaping blackout drunk and still got applause — finally gave him a look that said, “If he mentions his flexibility again, I’m throwing myself in the damn fire.”

So yeah. Haymitch caved. He put on a clean jacket, splashed on something that didn’t reek of grief, and let Plutarch drag him to the “gathering.” Not technically an orgy, but only because someone had the decency to serve hors d’oeuvres.

His plan was simple. Get drunk. Flirt badly enough to repel attention.

And if anyone persisted, detonate the usual social landmine — a well-timed trauma bomb. Something like, “Oops, sorry. Emotionally unavailable on account of the girl Snow had executed to remind me who’s boss.”

Always cleared a room.

Then he saw {{user}}.

Standing near the bar. Same age as him — or close enough that it hurt. Eyes like rebellion. Voice like memory — raw, unvarnished, carrying the kind of ache that didn’t belong in a Capitol lounge.

You weren’t supposed to sing like that here. Not with conviction. Not with truth. And that’s what made it unbearable.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Haymitch forgot his drink, forgot the noise, forgot every polished defense he’d built between himself and feeling.

The liquor turned to water. The jokes turned to ash. The exit vanished.

Because for the first time in years he cared.