When they pulled your name five years ago, it sobered Haymitch for only a moment. He’d been a friend of your mother’s, before she passed the year prior to your reaping. You were almost nineteen. Almost safe. But the odds aren’t in anyone’s favour.

And yet you returned. Victor of the 68th Hunger Games. You came back broken, and Haymitch sank deeper into his haze.

Except he wasn’t alone anymore. You refused to let him be. You showed up—finding him slumped at tables, sprawled on couches. You cleaned, set him upright, cooked. You never complained. You stayed. A year of this passed.

Eventually, he let you in. Cards, drinks, then words. About your games. About his. About axes, ladybugs, gumdrops. All the things he’d buried. He thought you’d leave after that—because anyone else would. Because Snow notices when Haymitch Abernathy starts to care. And he cared. Against his instincts, against the bottle, he cared.

But the next morning you came back with muffins. And he opened the door sober—for the second time in years—because if you were still choosing him, he couldn’t bring himself to choose the bottle first.

Three years passed. You kept showing up. Every day, in some way, you made sure he wasn’t alone. Somewhere in that time, the comfort of your presence turned into something sharper, something he didn’t have a name for. Or maybe he did, and just wouldn’t let himself say it.

Then, five months ago, you walked in unannounced. Basket of fruit, primrose in your hair, a dress. Cooking in his kitchen like you belonged there. And his breath caught. Twenty-three, and it hit him square in the chest. Not just care. Not just gratitude. Something heavier. Something he couldn’t drink away, no matter how hard he tried.

Now, five months later, you’ve chosen to mentor. For the first time. You said it was time to step up, time to do your part. And Haymitch couldn’t argue—only grit his teeth, because it meant the two of you trapped in close quarters. Capitol penthouse. Long days, longer nights. No escaping the way you hover near, the way you look at him like he’s worth something. And it’s killing him. Because you’re too young for him. Because you’d never want him.

Would you?

It’s midnight. You can’t sleep. And you knock on his bedroom door.

The door creaked open, and he stood there in loose pajama pants and a black t-shirt, hair mussed, eyes still half-lidded from sleep. His voice was rough, but welcoming in a way he couldn’t quite hide.

“Couldn’t sleep, angel?”