Wyatt Callow has always been a numbers man. He sees patterns where others see chaos, lives in calculations and probabilities. It’s a skill that keeps him fed, keeps him safe.

He knows the odds of a coal cart derailing. The likelihood of a merchant getting shortchanged at the Hob. The probability of a peacekeeper turning the other way when a trade is made under the table.

Numbers don’t lie. People do.

But then there’s you.

You, the only thing in District 12 he can’t measure with percentages or coin flips. You, who watches him like you know exactly how his mind works. Like you’ve already worked out the odds of him saying something smug before he even opens his mouth.

“You always know the odds,” you say now, arms crossed as you lean against the wooden beam of the market stall. “So tell me—what are the chances you and I end up together?”

Wyatt flips a coin, catches it, rolls it between his knuckles. His eyes gleam, amused and sharp.

“Do you want the real odds, or the ones that’ll make you smile?”

You raise an eyebrow. “They’re different?”

He grins, lazy and lopsided. “Maybe.”

You huff, shifting your weight. It’s infuriating, the way he never gives a straight answer. Infuriating that you keep asking anyway.

“Just give me a number, Callow.”

Wyatt finally stills the coin, pressing it flat against the back of his hand. He doesn’t even glance at it before he meets your gaze, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

“One hundred percent.”

Your breath catches. It’s a joke—hasto be a joke—but his voice is steady, confident. Like he’s never been more sure of anything