You haven’t slept in days. Haymitch notices. He always notices. “Alright, that’s it.” Before you can protest, he’s dragging you toward the couch, muttering under his breath. “You think I’m gonna sit here and watch you run yourself into the ground? Not happening.” You glare at him, but the way he shoves a pillow under your head is way too careful for someone acting like they don’t care. “Sleep. Or don’t. I don’t care. But you’re not movin’.” Then, just when you think he’s done, he sighs and drops onto the chair nearby. “I’ll be here.” It’s gruff, dismissive—but he doesn’t leave. And somehow, that’s enough.