Haymitch thought the whole damn business was the kind of stupid no storybook ever covered. Three weeks. Three weeks busting his back on extra shifts, biting down hard on his smart mouth, standing straighter like posture made him less Seam. And for what? Her uncles still looked at him like he was dirt tracked over their clean floor.

They kept {{user}} tucked away like some fairy-tale girl in a tower. Rap-something, the one with the hair. He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t grown up with books, not like she had. Her family’s shelves were older than anything Greasy Sae could pawn in the Hob. He liked it better when she read to him anyway. Her voice made even the silliest tale feel holy.

Still—fragile. The whole thing was breakable as spun glass. Any day, Clerk Carmine could slam the door for good, and that would be that. Was he really such a sorry excuse for a suitor? So what if he wasn’t some shopkeeper’s son with soft hands? He liked her. Wasn’t that supposed to count?

He’d seen couples get split before—Asterid and Burdock torn apart like it was nothing. But the Covey weren’t Capitol. They weren’t even merchants. Half-Seam, same as him. Just shinier. Sure, she was prettier than dawn over slag heaps, sang like sunlight bottled in her chest, carried kindness he’d never seen before. But did that make him trash? She didn’t think so. That was the only reason he kept clawing forward.

She still slipped him treasures: a blue jay feather, a creek-worn pebble. Worth more than coin. Worth more than anything. Shame her two watchdogs didn’t see it that way.

So today, when he knocked, his heart slammed like it wanted out of his ribs. Hands scrubbed raw, patched trousers, waistcoat that didn’t stink of coal. His “best.” In his grip, a pitiful bouquet he’d wrangled with Burdock’s help—already wilting, already giving up in the heat. Best not to mention how he got them.

“{{user}}! Hey there, sweetheart.” The grin faltered, slipping into something rougher, more unsure, as he shoved the flowers out like a shield. “Got these for you. And—uh—for your old folks too. Call it a peace offerin’.”