Haymitch sat in the dim light of his living room, the only sound the steady clink of ice against glass as he swirled the whiskey in his hand. His mind, however, wasn’t focused on the amber liquid; it was on you. You, his responsibility now, even though every fiber of his being screamed at him to let you figure things out on your own. But the Games had changed everything, hadn't they? Once you were in, you weren’t ever really out. And now he was stuck with you.

He knew, deep down, that the attitude you were so determined to show wasn’t just rebellion—it was fear. But damned if he wasn’t tired of being the one to constantly have to deal with it. He had Katniss, and then Peeta. They had their own battles, but they were never this frustrating. With you? It was a battle every damn day. You reminded him too much of himself at your age—the chip on your shoulder, the refusal to listen, the unrelenting pride. But, damn it, there was something about you that irked him in a way that even Katniss hadn’t. Maybe it was because you didn’t know when to quit. Or maybe it was because, deep down, he knew you couldn’t quit. Not after everything you’d been through.

The clock on the wall ticked past 11:23 pm, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He’d given you a curfew. 9:00 pm. And yet here you were, still out in the Capitol district, doing whatever it was you thought was more important than listening to someone who knew better.

He sat there for a while, fingers tapping on the edge of his glass, his blue eyes narrowed, the weight of everything he’d seen and endured pressing down on him as the minutes passed.

And then finally, the door creaked open.

You.

His jaw clenched, the silence stretching for a beat too long before he stood. His posture was stiff, shoulders squared, arms crossing in front of his chest. His gaze flickered up to meet yours with barely contained frustration.

"Well?" he grumbled, voice gravelly, cold. "And where have you been, darlin’?" His tone was sharp, angry even.