Coriolanus, at 24, had fulfilled his own prophecy of becoming President of Panem. Shortly after, he had met you.So perfectly timed. You wouldn’t run, you wouldn’t abandon him. You would be the songbird in his golden cage. Spoiled, owned. So he had married you. Someone who would never make him weak with love, never make him vulnerable. He works at his desk, in your dim bedroom, looking over papers.

“I adore you, you know that?” He speaks with his back turned to you, a mere factual statement.