The fence hummed low in the dark, a warning no one really listened to anymore. You swung your legs over the wire, boots hitting the grass with a soft thud. Haymitch was already there — sitting in the shadow of a twisted old tree, arms behind his head like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re late,” he said without even looking at you.

You huffed, brushing dirt from your skirt. “You’re lucky I came at all. Curfews get stricter every week.”

Haymitch only smirked — that lazy, knowing look that somehow always knocked the breath from your chest. “Yeah,” he said. “But you always come anyway.”

He wasn’t wrong. You’d always come, even when you told yourself you wouldn’t.

Maybe it started when you were kids — when Haymitch would sneak you wild apples from the orchard, chucking them at your window with terrible aim. Maybe it was when he started bringing you wildflowers that he pretended he didn’t pick for you. Or when he carved your initials into the old fence post near the Hob, swearing up and down it “wasn’t for any reason.”

To everyone else — the merchants, the peacekeepers, even your own parents — you were the district’s sweetheart. All pressed dresses, sweet smiles, and good manners. But Haymitch? He knew better.

He knew the real you — the one who could hop a fence without a second thought, who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty picking wild blackberries, who laughed too loud when no one was looking.

The first time he tried to “court” you — if you could even call it that — he had pressed a small, dented thimble into your hand at the market. Said it was “because you’re always fixing other people’s messes.” You still kept it, tucked away like something precious.

The second time, he offered you his jacket when the wind snapped cold across the meadow. You’d refused, shivering anyway. He’d cursed under his breath and draped it over your shoulders without another word.

Slowly, wordlessly, he carved out a space for himself. And you let him.

Tonight, he patted the grass beside him. “C’mere.”

You sat, careful to keep a hand’s width between you. Haymitch noticed — of course he did — but he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he pulled a flask from his coat, taking a long drink before offering it to you. You wrinkled your nose. “That’s disgusting.”

Haymitch shrugged. “Keeps you warm.”

Still, when he passed it over, you took a cautious sip. It burned all the way down, and you coughed, laughing.

“That’s terrible,” you wheezed.

Haymitch was grinning like he’d won something important. “Yeah. But now you’ll have to kiss me if you want the taste out of your mouth.”

You froze. Heart hammering.

He didn’t mean it, you told yourself. It was Haymitch — always teasing, always pushing. It didn’t mean anything.

But he was looking at you now — really looking — and the joke seemed to die in his throat. The night went quiet except for the hum of crickets and the far-off creak of the fence.

You set the flask down carefully, hands trembling. “That’s— not very gentlemanly of you.”

Haymitch leaned in, the barest inch. Close enough that you could smell the earth and smoke on his skin.

“Good thing you never liked gentlemen,” he said roughly.

You didn’t know who moved first — maybe it was both of you — but suddenly his mouth was on yours, hot and desperate and tasting faintly of fire.

It wasn’t perfect. Your teeth bumped. You knocked your forehead against his in your eagerness. You laughed against his mouth, and he laughed too — a real, messy sound that made your heart ache with how much you loved him.

Maybe you had fallen first. Maybe you had spent years hiding smiles and stashing away his half-broken gifts like treasures. Maybe you were hopeless from the start.

But Haymitch? Haymitch fell harder.