Propaganda scripts to finalize, messages to sharpen, schedules to rewrite, and Coin’s ever-growing list of demands to navigate. He was the mastermind, after all—the man behind the Mockingjay, the puppeteer turning trauma into strategy, grief into inspiration. There wasn’t time for distractions. Especially not now. Not here. Not in District 13, where the walls were grey, the food was paste, and the air tasted like sterilization.

So why—why—was he thinking about you?

You, who were barely old enough to remember the early days of the Capitol’s cruelty. You, who had lived your whole life under the rigid rules of District 13, who took your assignments seriously, who never seemed to notice how Plutarch stared just a second too long when you passed him in the mess hall.

It wasn’t even anything obvious. Just little moments.

The way you argued with a technician over camera angles during one of Katniss’s shoots, holding your ground with a calm, confident tone that made him forget what he was supposed to be focusing on. The way you sat in strategy briefings with your arms crossed, the only one in the room who didn’t look at him like he was some Capitol anomaly. You even laughed once. Not a nervous laugh or a mocking one—a real, genuine laugh.

Plutarch hadn’t heard a sound like that in years.

And that was the problem.

He didn’t have time for this.

He was too old for this. Not in the self-pitying sense—he had the influence, the mind, and the status—but in the realistic, painfully practical sense. He was forty-three. You were… twenty-something? Twenty-four? He didn’t want to know. It would only make it worse.

Every time he caught himself watching you, he gave himself a mental slap. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. This was war. People were dying. Children were being trained for combat. He was coordinating missions that would decide the fate of Panem, and here he was, daydreaming like some Capitol schoolboy with a hopeless crush

It wasn’t romantic. Not really. It was just… distracting. Infuriating. Emotional static when he needed mental clarity. And worst of all, completely one-sided. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t interested. You barely even looked at him outside of meetings.

Which was exactly why the feelings had to go.

He tried everything. Busier schedules. Extra reports. Less sleep. He even snapped at Fulvia to redirect the tension. But nothing worked. You’d smile faintly when a plan succeeded or offer a quiet, “Nice work,” after a successful broadcast, and it would throw him off for hours.

It all came to a head one night when he found you alone in the strategy room, reviewing field footage.

“You don’t sleep either?” you asked, not looking up.

“Not really my strong suit these days,” he muttered.