The Reaping was three days away. The sky hung low and heavy over District 12, a dull sheet of gray that felt too quiet, like the whole world was holding its breath.

You found Haymitch exactly where you expected him to be, perched on the fence line where the forest kissed the edge of town. He tossed a stone up and down in one hand, looking out over the trees like he was thinking about running and never stopping.

When he heard your footsteps, he glanced back, smirking in that way that always made your heart do something strange.

“Decided to slum it with me, sweetheart?” he drawled.

You rolled your eyes and sat down beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed. He did not pull away. Lately he never did.

“You would not survive two days without me,” you said, poking him in the ribs.

He caught your hand without thinking, holding it lightly between his rough fingers. For a second, neither of you moved.

Haymitch was all sharp edges and fast talk to the rest of the world, but with you he was different. Quieter. Restless in a way that had nothing to do with smart remarks. Like he was made of all the things he could never say.

The fence hummed faintly behind you. A reminder. Time was running out.

“You scared?” you asked, voice low.

Haymitch shrugged, but the line of his jaw was tight. “Tesserae are stacked against me. Against all of us.” A beat. “But I figure the Capitol would not know what to do with me anyway.”

You laughed softly, leaning into him without thinking. He was warm, solid. Alive.

When you turned to look at him, you caught the way his gaze lingered on you — not teasing, not mocking. Something heavier. Something real.

There had always been a pull between you, even when you were kids sneaking scraps of bread from the bakery or racing barefoot through the back alleys of the Seam. You were used to Haymitch throwing an arm around your shoulders, stealing half your lunch, shouting your name across the square just to make you blush.

But lately it felt different. Like every touch stayed a little longer. Every look meant a little more.

He let go of your hand slowly, like it hurt to do it. “You should stay away from me,” he said suddenly. “Bad luck.”