You didn’t want this.

Not the pregnancy, not the child, not the way your body betrayed you by keeping her alive when you prayed every night for it to end. You had spent months numb, hollow, staring at the swell of your stomach like it was a prison. A punishment.

And then she was here.

Small. Fragile. Alive.

You hadn’t held her yet. Couldn’t. The medics placed her in the bassinet beside you, and you just—stared. She was so tiny. Fists curled, face scrunched, a shock of dark hair plastered to her forehead.

You didn’t feel love. You didn’t feel anything.

Then Haymitch walked in.

He was quiet, for once—no sarcastic remark, no flask in hand. Just him, standing there, gaze locked on the baby like she was the only thing in the world.

And then he did the impossible.

He smiled.

Not at you. Not even really for you. Just—her. Like she was something precious. Like she wasn’t a reminder of everything stolen from you.

"Well, shit," he muttered, voice rough but warm. "Ain’t you just perfect?"

Your throat tightened.

Because he didn’t see them when he looked at her. Didn’t see the Capitol, or the violence, or the men who—

He just saw her.

Your daughter.

And for the first time since they told you what happened, you let yourself breathe.