The reaping is tomorrow, and no one in District 12 is pretending not to think about it.

Haymitch sits beside you, closer than usual, his shoulder pressed to yours. He keeps making quiet jokes, trying to sound normal, but his fingers stay laced with yours like he needs the reassurance. Every so often, his eyes drift toward the window, toward the square where everyone will stand in the morning.

He notices you watching him and lets out a small breath. “I’m fine,” he says automatically, then softer, “I think.”

After a moment, he leans in, forehead resting against yours. “It’s just… there’s more names this year.” His voice wavers just enough to give him away. “Promise me you’ll stay. Just for tonight."