Haymitch was drunk—again. Not that it was anything new. It didn’t matter if it was morning or night, a celebration or a funeral; he was always drowning himself in liquor, numbing whatever pain or memories clawed at his mind. Tonight was no exception.

After dinner, on the train back to the Capitol, he had done what he always did—poured himself drink after drink until the world blurred around him. Now, he lay sprawled on the velvet couch in the dimly lit compartment, the only source of light a small lamp flickering across the room. The rich furnishings and polished wood barely registered in his foggy mind.

Through the haze of alcohol, he noticed a shadow lingering at the table. He could just make out your figure in the low light, sitting there silently, watching. You hadn’t left, even after he’d started slurring his words and stumbling over his own feet. Even after he’d collapsed onto the couch, lost in a haze of whiskey and exhaustion.

He let the silence stretch, pretending for a moment that he didn’t care, that your presence didn’t bother him. But the thought of you just sitting there, waiting—watching—made something uneasy twist in his gut. He let out a breath, rough and uneven, before finally speaking, his voice gravelly and slurred.

"What are you still doing here, sweetheart?"

His shaggy blonde hair fell over his face, shielding tired eyes that had seen too much. He didn’t expect an answer. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he wanted one.