The clang of iron and the scent of coal filled the dusty square, where sweat and soot mixed into the very air people breathed. Haymitch Abernathy hoisted a crate of old tools into the back of the merchant’s wagon, the muscles in his arms taut with effort. His shirt clung to his back, darkened with sweat, but he didn’t complain. He never did. Not about labor, hunger, and stares.

Because they were watching again, they always were.

Three girls by the bakery giggled behind their hands. A boy near the seamstress stall tilted his head, admiring the way the sunlight hit Haymitch’s dark curls and cast a soft gleam in his storm-grey eyes. His olive skin, freckled lightly by the sun, made him look older, tougher. He gave her the faintest smirk but didn’t say a word. They always looked—girls, boys, even the Peacekeepers sometimes. He’d heard it his whole life: That Abernathy boy’s a looker, the district called him. A heartbreaker. But also—

"The kind that died young."

Haymitch had heard the whispers before. Said with both awe and sorrow. Like he was a spark people admired from afar, afraid to touch it too long.

He finished the job, brushing coal dust from his palms. He was thinking about Sid, probably waiting at home with Ma, probably hungry. Haymitch had a bit of coin in his pocket now. Enough for bread, maybe. Maybe some jerky.

Haymitch was ready to head home—until he felt arms wrap around him from behind.

“Guess who,” a soft voice breathed into his back.

His entire posture softened. He turned slightly, and there she was—Lenore Dove Baird, his girlfriend. Barefoot, a bit winded from running, her dark braid undone and loose in the humid air. Her arms stayed wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, burying her cheek into the back of his shoulder.

“Lenore Dove,” he said quietly, his voice laced with surprise and warmth. “Did you sneak out?”

“It’s been nearly a week,” she murmured. “I missed you,” she whispered, “Uncle’s been keeping me shut in. Said I couldn’t see you.”