Work Text:
It was awful, he cried, awful, awful!
Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things.
Still, life had a way of adding day to day.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, MRS. DALLOWAY
The wind in District 12 smelled different now.
It wasn’t smoke anymore. It was wet ash, turned into soil. Something that smelled like… survival. And Haymitch, standing on the porch of his government-rebuilt house, holding a glass of water he desperately wished was something stronger, noticed it.
That’s when the car door opened.
One of those fancy electric cars the new government liked to parade around. Pale, too clean for this place. And out stepped her —low heels, gray coat, hair tied back with something simple. Effie Trinket.
He stopped breathing for a second.
She closed the car door carefully, like she was afraid to make too much noise. Like District 12 was still rubble and every sound might wake something terrible beneath the earth. She looked around, as if she hadn’t expected to be seen.
But he saw her.
“You…” he began, but the rest of the sentence fell flat.
She looked at him. Just for a second. Her eyes were different. Still bright, still beautiful—but there was something in them he recognized: guilt. Or maybe longing. Probably both.
“Hello, Haymitch.”
And that was it. No “darling,” no “how positively dreadful.” Just his name. Dry. Honest.
He stepped off the porch.
“What are you doing here?”
Effie straightened her back, even though the coat hung off her shoulders like it didn’t quite belong.
“The government asked for volunteers to assist with district recovery. Event planning, archive organization... I thought I could help.”
A pause. “I thought I should.”
He stared at her for a moment that dragged on like wet rope.
“I didn’t think you’d come back.”
“Neither did I,” she said, and gave him a small smile. The kind that vanished before it reached her eyes.
That night, she stayed at the municipal guesthouse. Tomorrow, they said, she’d move into a temporary residence—some sort of staff housing. But they both knew—no one was in a hurry to make permanent decisions anymore.
Haymitch didn’t sleep.
He sat in the living room chair, staring at the ceiling, hearing her voice in his head saying “Hello, Haymitch” like it was something ordinary. Like they hadn’t both walked through hell and back, standing on opposite sides of an arena with no walls.
When he went to the market the next morning—something he rarely did—he heard the whispers before he even bought bread:
“They say the Capitol woman’s back.”
“The blonde one? The escort?”
“She looked scared. Too thin. Poor thing.”
Poor thing.
If they only knew. If they knew what Effie Trinket was made of. That she wasn’t made of lace and lipstick, but steel dipped in glitter. The only person who’d ever stared him down with just a glance.
That afternoon, she showed up at his door. Again.
With a paper in hand.
“They said you’re responsible for the district casualty archives. The Committee needs me to catalogue it”—she handed him the paper—“and since you have a spare room… I thought I could use it as a temporary office.”
He looked at the paper. Didn’t even pretend to read it.
“You want to stay here?”
She hesitated. The first crack. The first honest slip.
“I do.” And she whispered: “It’s better than being alone.”
He let her in.
The word temporary became a kind of joke neither of them laughed at.
Effie moved into the spare room at Haymitch’s house on a Thursday, citing government oversight and misfiled housing requests. He didn’t argue. He just cleared the room, left clean sheets on the bed, and muttered something about locking the bathroom door.
She brought two suitcases. One full of clothes that looked too formal for the ashes of District 12, and one that rattled like it was mostly pills and paper. She set them down with careful precision, and then she went quiet.
For two days, they barely spoke.
He cooked once. She made tea once. They avoided each other in the hallway like teenagers at war with their own hormones. Except this war was older, quieter, and buried under layers of shared grief neither of them had the vocabulary for.
And then the assignment came.
The memorial for the fallen was being planned by the new government, and someone in the Capitol had the bright idea to make it “locally managed” — to “empower” the districts. Which meant two names were selected:
Effie Trinket, former Capitol liaison, currently organizing administrative chaos with suspicious grace.
And Haymitch Abernathy, beloved victor, community drunk, and the only person who still knew the names of all the dead by heart.
The first meeting was held in his kitchen.
Effie arrived at the table with a notepad and a color-coded calendar, and Haymitch arrived with a bottle of water he wished was whiskey and a stare that said, let’s just get through this.
“So,” she said, tapping her pen twice, “they want it on the twenty-fifth. Outside, near the square. They’re sending someone from the press. I have a list of names for the engraving, but we’ll need confirmation.”
Haymitch exhaled through his nose. “Half of those names were never official. The Capitol burned the records.”
Effie nodded. “I know.”
He looked at her.
No protest, no defense of her old home. Just quiet agreement. It was still strange, hearing that from her. Like watching a statue bleed.
“I’ll write down the ones I remember,” he said.
She smiled—barely. “I knew you would.”
They didn’t talk about it again, but something settled between them like dust on the windowpane.
That night, he caught her standing in the hallway outside his room.
She wasn’t eavesdropping. She wasn’t lost. She just… stood there, holding a folder against her chest, breathing like the air was too loud.
“You alright?” he asked.
Effie blinked. “Yes. I just—forgot which room was mine for a moment.”
“You’ve been here four nights.”
She smiled again. Not really. Just the shape of one. “Then I have no excuse.”
Haymitch leaned against the doorframe. His arms crossed. “You’re not sleeping.”
Neither of them were, but it felt easier to accuse her.
“No,” she admitted. “I’ve grown used to noise, I think. The Capitol was always loud. Music, lights, static... Here it’s just…”
“Too quiet?”
She nodded.
He jerked his head toward the back porch. “Come on.”
She followed him outside, clutching the folder like armor.
They sat on the steps. The sky was clouded. The stars dim. The silence pressed in, but it was less sharp now, with her beside him.
“I’m trying,” she said after a long while.
He didn’t ask what she meant. He just let her speak.
“I’m trying to be useful. To matter here. But I know what they think when they look at me. I was part of the system. I smiled through it. I hosted reapings like they were parades.”
“You did what you had to.”
She looked at him, eyes shimmering like glass. “So did you. And they hate you less.”
“They expect me to be broken.”
“And me?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The wind shifted. Cold against their skin. She shivered, but didn’t move.
He could’ve handed her his coat. Could’ve told her to go back inside.
Instead, he sat closer. Just enough that their arms touched.
Neither of them moved away.
The next morning, she made breakfast.
It wasn’t good—too much salt, not enough heat—but he ate it anyway. And she smiled for real this time when he muttered something about “poisonous Capitol cuisine.”
They worked all day on the names for the memorial. He remembered details Effie couldn’t believe. Ages. Favorite colors. A girl who wore her mother’s shoes every year. A boy who always sang before harvest.
She wrote them all down. Every single one. Like scripture. Like an apology. That night, they sat in the living room, too tired to pretend they weren’t becoming a habit.
“I’m not staying long,” she said softly, not looking at him.
He stared at the fire that wasn’t lit.
“I know.”
But neither of them moved.
Haymitch had always thought he was good at avoiding things. Responsibility. Vulnerability. Sunlight before noon. But Effie Trinket with bare feet in his kitchen at 6 a.m. was not something a man could avoid.
She stood there that morning, wrapped in one of his old flannel blankets like a refugee from a softer war, spooning sugar into tea she wasn’t even drinking. Her hair was loose—messy in a way that had nothing to do with Capitol fashion and everything to do with having slept (or not slept) on his lumpy spare mattress. Her toenails were still painted. Pale pink. Chipped.
She didn’t see him at first. He watched from the hall, half-hidden behind the frame, pretending he was still deciding whether he wanted coffee or just to burn the whole day to the ground and start again.
“Tea’s cold,” she said, not turning.
He blinked. “You always talk to yourself in other people’s kitchens?”
“I figured you were listening.”
She turned then, blinking blearily at him. Her eyes were puffy, tired, human. Not the mask he remembered. Not the prim-and-polished escort. Just Effie. Fragile and faking it.
He moved toward the counter. “I can make coffee.”
“I already tried. It’s undrinkable.”
“I like it that way.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do.”
He made it anyway, and they drank it together in silence.
The silence was becoming a third presence in the house. Not awkward—not really. Just thick . Like fog in the lungs. Like neither of them quite knew how to name what was growing between coffee mugs and clipped conversations and the way Effie sometimes almost touched his shoulder when she passed by but didn’t.
He noticed everything.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. The way she traced the rim of her teacup when she was anxious. The way she read old government memos out loud under her breath like she was practicing to be believed.
He should’ve hated it. Hated her. But he didn’t. He hated that he didn’t .
On the eighth day, they argued for the first time. Not loudly. Not about anything important. Just enough to let the pressure hiss out of the cracks.
He’d said something careless about the Capitol. She’d replied with that too-calm tone that always came right before frostbite. And then suddenly—
“You don’t get to be the only one haunted, Haymitch.”
His name in her mouth like a slap.
He stared at her across the kitchen table. Between them sat lists of names and seating charts for a memorial no one really wanted to attend.
She folded her arms, and for a moment he saw her—not Effie Trinket, the doll, the polished puppet—but the woman who had survived something unspeakable and was still here. Still standing. Still fighting to be useful in a place that looked at her and saw an enemy in pearls.
“You think I enjoyed it?” she asked, quiet now. “That I liked watching children die while I smiled and told them to be brave?”
His jaw clenched. “You never told them not to go.”
“I never had the choice.”
They stared at each other. Not blinking.
And then her voice broke. “Neither did you.”
And that was the end of it. She left the table, went outside. He let her go.
But later, when the sun was setting, she came back inside and sat beside him on the sofa. Not too close. Just near enough that their arms brushed when he shifted.
Neither of them said I’m sorry. But neither of them needed to.
The next day, she made soup. It was terrible. Too peppery. The noodles were overcooked. He ate two bowls.
“You didn’t have to eat the second one,” she muttered, cheeks red.
“I wanted to.” he said with a shrug.
“You’re a liar.” she stared back in defiance.
“True.”
But he smiled anyway. And she almost did, too.
They started to fall into rhythm. Not comfort. Not yet. But something like predictability. And that, for Haymitch, was new.
He began leaving the back door open when he went outside. She stopped closing it all the way when she came back in.
She stopped knocking when she needed something. He stopped pretending he didn’t hear when she cried in her room at night.
One day, she found an old photograph in the kitchen drawer. It was of him—young, just post-Games, sitting on the porch with a bottle in his hand and hate in his eyes. He didn’t remember the photo being taken. Probably some Capitol reporter, eager to document the slow ruin of a victor.
She held it for a long time.
“Do you still feel like him?” she asked.
He looked at the boy in the photo. Hollowed out. Angry.
“No,” he said. “He died years ago.”
She put the photo back in the drawer without a word.
Effie started wearing her hair down.
It was a small thing. But in the evening light, it glowed gold over her shoulders, and he had to look away too often.
She also started stealing his sweaters.
Not in a cute, romantic way. In a practical, this room is cold and I refuse to ask for help kind of way. But still—there she was. At the kitchen table. Wrapped in his gray knit pullover, sleeves too long, collar wide.
She looked like she belonged there. He hated how much he wanted her to live with him.
It came to a head on the night of the first storm.
The wind screamed through District 12 like it remembered what it had lost. Rain came sideways. Windows shook. The lights flickered, then died.
Haymitch lit a lantern. Old habit. She came down the stairs in a nightgown and sweater, eyes wide in the dark. “I hate storms.”
“Better than fire,” he muttered.
She flinched. He cursed himself. She stood in the doorway like a ghost waiting for permission to haunt him.
“Come sit,” he said.
She did.
They sat on the sofa with the lantern between them. He handed her a blanket. She took it. Didn’t thank him. Just looked at the fireless hearth like it might speak to her.
And then, without warning, she asked:
“Do you miss them?”
He didn’t ask who.
“Yes,” he said. “Every day.”
She nodded.
The storm cracked outside. Trees groaned. Somewhere, something metal slammed against something else.
She shivered. Pulled the blanket tighter. And then, so softly it was almost a breath:
“I still see their faces. Sometimes. The ones I sent to die.”
He closed his eyes.
“Me too.”
A silence. And then—
“Do you think they’d hate me?”
He looked at her.
Effie Trinket, who once wore wigs like armor and manners like weapons. Now barefoot. Blanketed. Braver than anyone had ever given her credit for.
“No,” he said. “I think they’d forgive you.”
She blinked fast.
And then she leaned against his shoulder. Just a little. Just enough. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
The storm outside raged. But inside—
There was warmth. And something else neither of them were ready to name. They almost kissed in the garden.
It wasn’t planned. (Of course it wasn’t. Nothing about this was planned—this messy, silent, breathless not-quite-whatever between them.) But it happened. Almost.
The day had been warm, surprisingly so for District 12. The earth had softened, and Haymitch, in a fit of restless usefulness, had taken to pulling weeds near what used to be his mother’s herb patch. Effie had wandered out—book in hand, hair up, skirt brushing her calves like she was pretending not to belong to the dirt.
But she sat anyway. On the edge of the old porch step. Watching.
“You know what you’re pulling?” she asked eventually.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Weeds.”
“Those are mint.”
“Shit.”
He let them drop. Wiped his hands on his pants.
“Useful,” she added, almost smiling. “If you don’t kill them.”
He rolled his eyes and went back to work. “You want a trowel and a go at the thyme?”
She didn’t answer. Just tucked her knees up, resting her chin on them, and kept reading. Except she wasn’t reading. He could feel her watching. Her gaze had a weight. It made his skin itch. And maybe—maybe that’s why he said it.
“You ever think about it?”
She looked up. “About what?”
“This.” A vague gesture. “You. Me. Same house. This weird kind of domesticity.”
She blinked. Then: “Often.”
He nearly dropped the shovel.
“Is that weird?” she asked.
He swallowed. His throat was dry. “A little.”
“Good.”
Silence stretched between them, long and bright. The breeze tugged at her skirt. A few strands of hair blew free from her twist.
And then she stood.
Walked over.
Stopped just short of touching him.
“You’ve got dirt on your cheek,” she said, so soft it was almost apologetic.
He didn’t move.
Her fingers came up, hovered. He could feel the warmth of her skin without contact.
“May I?”
He nodded. Her thumb brushed his cheek. Light. Careful. Reverent. He didn’t breathe. Neither did she.
When she looked up—when their eyes met—it felt like being thrown against something invisible. A wall he hadn’t realized he’d built. And she—she was there on the other side, cracking through it with nothing but her gaze and a stubborn heartbeat.
Her hand lingered. She was so close .
If he leaned forward even a little—
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet.
The air between them buzzed with the kiss-that-didn’t-happen. She stepped back. Barely.
He exhaled like he’d been punched.
Effie’s fingers curled into her palm. “Right. Well. I’ll leave you to the murder of the mint, then.”
“Princess—”
She was already walking away.
He let her go. He always did.
Later, he found a mug of tea by the front door. Still warm. Too much sugar, just the way he hated it. Just the way she drank it.
He drank it anyway.
She stopped coming downstairs in the mornings. He noticed. Of course he noticed. The kitchen was too quiet. The air too still.
He made coffee. Set a second mug down beside his, every damn day. She never came to drink it. He didn’t ask why. Didn’t go up. Didn’t knock.
But some nights—after the storm had passed and the house creaked with the kind of silence only absence brings—he’d sit by her door, cup in hand, and think about saying something. Anything. Everything.
He never did.
But the next morning, he’d find the mug empty outside her room.
So that was something.
One evening, he found her in the living room, curled into the far corner of the couch like she was trying to make herself disappear.
She didn’t look at him when he sat beside her.
“I got mail,” she said flatly. “From the Capitol.”
He tensed. “Bad?”
“They want me back. Said it’s time for the new District Education Initiative.” Her lips curled like the phrase tasted sour. “Apparently, I’m still under contract.”
“They can’t force you.”
“They think they can.” she replies tiredly.
Silence.
Then: “Do you want to go?” he asks, scared of the answer.
“No.”
He didn’t expect the answer to come that fast.
“I just—” she faltered, “—I don’t know who I am if I don’t belong to them.”
His chest ached. “You’re Effie. You’re still here. You made me soup.”
“That’s a low bar, Haymitch.”
“You wore my sweater.”
She laughed. It was small. Cracked. But real.
He turned toward her. Slowly.
“You’re not theirs anymore.”
She blinked at him, eyes too wide. “Then whose am I?”
The air split open between them.
His hand moved before his brain caught up—fingers brushing hers where they lay on the cushion. Her knuckles twitched.
Their hands didn’t quite hold. Just touched. Still, it felt like a scream.
“You’re yours,” he said, hoarse. “But if you ever wanted…”
He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.
She was already looking at him like maybe, just maybe, she understood. But her hand pulled back.
The moment shattered.
“I’m tired,” she whispered. “I think I’ll go up.”
And he let her. Again. She didn’t come back down for three days.
And Haymitch spent those three days pacing like an idiot with a hangover in his own house, wishing he were better at pushing people away the moment they mattered.
He’d never been good at this. He drank less. Slept less. And stared at her closed door like it owed him answers. When she finally emerged, her face was pale, lips pressed into a line.
“I’m not going,” she said. “Back to the Capitol. I’m staying.”
And then—just like that—she walked into the kitchen and made tea. As if nothing had happened. As if that kiss that never happened hadn’t been burning a hole between them for a week. As if they weren’t two people on the verge of collapsing into each other.
Haymitch stood in the doorway and watched her stir honey into porcelain.
She glanced up. “Coffee?”
He shook his head.
“I think,” he said, “I’d rather stay awake for this.”
Her eyes met his.
And something like a smile passed between them.
Not happiness.
But maybe—maybe—hope.
It rained the night everything cracked open.
The storm had rolled in heavy, thunder low and endless like the growl of something ancient. Haymitch stood at the window, jaw tight, watching the trees whip sideways.
Behind him, the house was still. Too still.
And then he heard it.
Effie’s voice, small and sharp, somewhere upstairs.
“No, I told you—”
A pause.
Then: “I’m not coming back. I still have a choice and I said no.”
Another pause. Louder now. “You had a chance to ask me to do this when I was still in the Capitol.”
The click of the phone slamming down echoed like a gunshot.
Haymitch was moving before he even thought to.
By the time he reached the second floor, her door was open, her back to him, her hands braced on the dresser like it was the only thing keeping her standing.
“Princess—”
“Don’t.”
She didn’t turn. Her shoulders trembled. He stepped in anyway.
“Was it them?” he asked.
She nodded. “They want me to host something. A gala. For the new Academy.”
He swore under his breath. “You said no.”
“Of course I said no.” Her voice broke. “But saying no to them never made a difference, did it?”
His hands curled into fists. He wanted to smash something.
Instead, he said, “You’re not going.”
“I know I’m not going!” she snapped, spinning around—and there were tears in her eyes, but her chin was up, defiant. Glorious. “But they still called. They still tried. They still think they own me.”
He moved closer. Slowly. “They don’t.”
“You keep saying that,” she whispered. “But I don’t know who I am without them. Without the Capitol. Without everything being so heavy in my life, even when it has changed. Without… without you. ”
The air split down the middle.
His breath caught.
“I wake up in this house,” she went on, voice shaking, “and sometimes it feels like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life. Someone who isn’t mine. Someone who gets to bake bread and plant tomatoes and—” her voice hitched, “—look at you like you’re not a goddamn ghost.”
“I’m not a ghost,” he said, barely more than a breath.
“You haunt me, Haymitch. You—you and your silence. You and your glances. You and your goddamn stubbornness and the way you don’t ask me to stay here, but you make it impossible to leave. ”
His throat was burning. “I thought you didn’t want me to ask.”
She stared at him like he’d just cracked open her ribs and looked inside.
“I didn’t,” she whispered. “Because if you asked, I’d say yes.”
Then she shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping. “And I can’t do that unless I know . Unless I know you want me here because of me, and not because I’m just what’s left. ”
The silence was unbearable, so he broke it.
“I don’t want you because you’re what’s left,” he said. “I want you because you’re Effie.”
She blinked.
He stepped closer. “I want you because you make the house feel like something alive . Because back then, you saw me at my worst and never turned away. Because you tried, not only for me, for the both of us and for all the kids we buried. Because you know how I take my coffee and you still bring me your too sugary tea. Because you tell me the names of weeds and wear my sweaters and because when I hear your laugh, it’s the only thing that doesn’t sound like rubble. Because your laugh and your voice were the only things keeping me sane and making me want to wake up for another sunrise on my birthday.”
“Haymitch—”
“And because every damn night I sit downstairs thinking about how close I came to kissing you in the garden and wondering if I should’ve done it.”
She was breathing hard and so was he. The space between them was razor-thin.
“You should’ve,” she said, voice trembling.
He reached up, slow, like the air might break if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed her cheek. She leaned into it, barely, then his thumb traced her jaw.
“Still can,” he murmured.
And then—finally—he kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t clean, it was desperate and breaking and real .
She surged into it, hands curling into his shirt, anchoring herself. He cupped her face like he didn’t trust the moment to stay, like if he let go she’d vanish.
But she didn’t vanish.
She kissed him like she’d been holding her breath for years. Like this was the only thing that made sense anymore. When they pulled apart, barely, her forehead rested against his.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. She was here. He was here. And the spaces between them? Gone. The rain didn’t stop. It softened to a hush, like the world itself was catching its breath. The house felt wrapped in it—quiet, heavy, waiting.
Haymitch didn’t move. Neither did Effie.
Her lips were still tingling. Her hands trembled where they clutched his shirt, but she didn’t let go. She didn’t want to. Couldn’t.
He pressed his forehead to hers again. “Still breathing?”
“Barely.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, warm against her cheek. “Good.”
They stood there, wrapped in silence and something thicker than silence. Something that clung. Something that felt like truth.
“Live with me,” he said.
She blinked up at him. “I’m already here.”
“I mean—” He exhaled. “Tonight. Just. Stay. Please.”
The vulnerability in his voice undid her.
“All right,” she said, barely above a whisper.
He led her to his bedroom like she was made of glass and he wasn’t sure if this would shatter everything or save it.
The room was dark but not cold. There was a dent in the mattress where he always slept—his side. The other was untouched.
Until now.
She climbed in. He followed.
For a long moment, they just lay there, backs almost touching, afraid to breathe too loud.
Then he rolled toward her, just enough for his knuckles to brush her wrist.
She turned.
Their eyes met in the half-light.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I will be.”
“Effie—”
She kissed him again.
This one was softer.
No storm. No fight. Just lips grazing, slow and steady, like they'd found the language of each other at last.
He sighed into her mouth. One of his hands found her waist, the other her cheek, and she melted into him like she’d been waiting her whole life to be touched gently.
“I keep thinking this’ll wake me up,” she murmured.
“It won’t,” he said, kissing her again. “I won’t let it.”
She tucked her head into the curve of his neck, and he pulled the blankets higher. His fingers made quiet, tender paths across her back.
She laughed once, breathless. “You’re warm.”
“You’re cold.”
“Not anymore.”
They didn’t sleep much.
They talked in hushed tones about nothing and everything. About tomatoes that never sprouted, and childhood dreams that never came true. About nightmares they never voiced before and the small kindnesses that made the world bearable again.
She told him about the first night she arrived — how she almost ran.
He told her about the first night she stayed — how he almost asked her to.
And then, somewhere between one kiss and the next, her fingers laced through his.
“Haymitch?”
“Yeah?”
“If I never go back… if I stay… you won’t grow tired of me?”
He kissed the inside of her wrist like a vow.
“Never.”
She smiled, tucked herself against his chest, and finally—finally—slept.
The morning slid in quietly, gold and soft like spilled tea.
Effie woke first.
Haymitch was still asleep, sprawled on his side, one arm slung over her waist like he’d claimed the right sometime in the night and forgot to give it back.
His mouth was slightly open. His hair, already a mess, was worse now — flopped into his eyes, wild and boyish.
It hit her like a wave: she hadn’t felt this safe in years.
She let herself watch him. Just for a moment. Just long enough to memorize the exact curve of his lips, the dip between his brows, the way his chest rose and fell — steady, dependable, alive.
Then she slipped out of bed, barefoot and careful, like she might break the spell.
She padded down the hall to the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets. The house smelled faintly of old coffee and woodsmoke. She liked that. She liked the squeak of the floorboards, the chipped mug she chose, the way the morning felt unclaimed.
She liked the worn flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair.
She pulled it on without thinking. It hung past her hips and still held a faint trace of his scent — soap and ash and something deeply, devastatingly Haymitch.
When he walked in a few minutes later, rubbing sleep from his eyes, she was already at the stove.
He stopped in the doorway.
His voice was still gravelly with sleep. “Is that my shirt?”
She glanced back with a mock-casual shrug. “It was cold.”
His gaze lingered. Not on the shirt, but on her in it. Bare legs, messy hair, sleeves rolled up like she owned the morning.
“You planning to give it back?”
“No.”
That made him grin. Small, crooked, fond.
He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re making coffee?”
“Trying. If it’s undrinkable, it’s your fault for hiding the good beans.”
“Check the tin behind the flour.” His mouth brushed her skin as he spoke. “You always miss that one.”
She turned in his arms, hands on his chest now.
Their noses almost touched.
“I made toast,” she said softly. “And jam.”
“You steal my shirt, make me breakfast, and still manage to boss me around.”
“Some things never change.”
And then — he kissed her again.
But this time?
It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t broken.
It was slow.
Deliberate.
His hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, thumb brushing the hinge of her jaw. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world. Like he wanted to take his time. Like he’d waited too damn long for this to be anything less than perfect.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
She rose on her toes to press closer.
He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss — coaxing, teasing, tasting her like he could read every unsaid thing in the press of her mouth.
And she let him.
Melted into it.
Lost herself in it.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and grinning, she said, “That was…”
“Yeah.”
She bit her lip. “You’re not gonna make some sarcastic remark?”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Later. Right now I’m too busy not screwing this up.”
She laughed, light and unguarded.
He looked at her like she hung the moon.
And for the first time in a long, long time, the day felt like a promise.
They lingered in the kitchen.
Effie, flushed and bright-eyed, pretending to sip her coffee while her lips still tasted like Haymitch.
Haymitch, pacing a little, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to act normal and failing spectacularly.
“You keep looking at me,” she teased.
“I do not.”
“You do. Every five seconds.”
“You’re wearing my shirt and making toast in my kitchen, Effie. It’s distracting.”
She bit back a smile. “I can change.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He said it so fast, so low, that she almost dropped her mug from how intimate it sounded. She blinked.
“Oh.”
A beat.
He cleared his throat, looked away. “Want to walk into town?”
She blinked again. “Now?”
He shrugged. “You’ll need real clothes. But yeah. Fresh air. Maybe… maybe you’d like to see what’s changed.”
She blinked harder, this time because her throat went tight. Haymitch Abernathy, local grump, just invited her on what sounded suspiciously like a date.
“I’d like that,” she said softly.
They walked side by side, the road into town still muddy from last night’s rain.
Effie had changed into jeans and a soft grey sweater, but left his flannel tied around her waist, like a flag she didn’t know she was flying.
Haymitch noticed.
He didn’t say a damn word about it, but his hand brushed hers three times in twenty minutes.
On the fourth, he just held it.
The town was still waking up when they arrived. A few kids darted past them, laughing. Someone was hanging laundry on a porch. The bakery windows were fogged up from the heat inside.
And from across the square, Katniss spotted them.
She froze mid-step, one hand still wrapped around the handle of her market bag. Peeta, beside her, paused too — then looked from Effie to Haymitch and raised an eyebrow so high it could’ve hit orbit.
Haymitch cursed under his breath. “Of course.”
Effie smiled. “It’s all right.”
“You sure?”
She squeezed his hand. “You survived mentoring the Games and a Quarter Quell. You can survive this.”
They walked across the square.
Effie straightened her shoulders.
Haymitch grumbled like his boots hurt, but didn’t let go of her hand.
Katniss was the first to speak. “Morning.”
Effie smiled brightly. “Good morning, Katniss. Peeta.”
Peeta’s smile was sly. “Nice day for a walk.”
“Mmph,” Haymitch said.
Katniss looked between them. “Didn’t know you were… out.”
“We’re not—” Haymitch started.
Effie cut in gently. “We’re walking. Together. It’s nothing scandalous.”
Peeta gave a low whistle. “That’s your flannel, isn’t it?”
Effie looked down at her waist. “It is.”
Haymitch groaned audibly.
Katniss was trying not to smirk. She failed. “Well. About time.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “Just saying.”
Peeta grinned and added, “We’ll let you get back to your… walking.”
And with that, they vanished into the market.
Effie and Haymitch stood there for a second.
“Well,” she said lightly. “That wasn’t terrible.”
He looked at her. Really looked.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her smile was soft. His flannel hugged her waist like it belonged there.
Something in him cracked open .
“You wanna come back?” he asked, voice low. “To the house.”
She tilted her head. “We haven’t even bought anything yet.”
“I don’t care about the market.”
“What do you care about, then?”
“You,” he said.
It was quiet. Unguarded.
She blinked. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
And just like that — she kissed him again.
Right there, in the middle of the town square, with the wind tugging at their clothes and the scent of bread in the air.
This kiss was deep and certain, full of promises and rain-drenched mornings and the impossibly fragile hope that maybe, just maybe , neither of them had to be alone anymore.
When they broke apart, he was breathless and stunned.
“You’re not gonna make a sarcastic remark?” she asked again, teasing.
“Nope.”
He looked completely undone.
She grinned.
They walked back to the house holding hands.
And this time, he didn’t let go once.
By the time they made it back to the house, the sun was higher and the geese were pissed.
Effie unlatched the gate and they stormed her like a feathery mob, clearly unimpressed by her absence.
“I think they missed you,” Haymitch muttered, watching one peck at her boot like it held a grudge.
She crouched, cooing softly as she tossed them feed. “I’m their queen.”
“They’re plotting your downfall.”
Effie stood, brushing crumbs off her sweater. “They wouldn’t dare.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was something fond about it. Something soft around the edges that hadn’t been there before. It made her stomach flutter.
They went inside.
Something about crossing the threshold together this time felt… heavier. Not bad, but significant . Like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if this time would be different. If they would be.
Effie shrugged off his flannel and hung it on a chair, then hovered, unsure.
“So,” she said.
“So,” he echoed.
They stared at each other.
The silence stretched. Neither looked away.
Effie bit her lip. “What now?”
Haymitch rubbed his face like he was preparing to dive off a cliff. “I don’t know. We kissed. Twice. You’re still here.”
“Do you want me to go?”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “No. I want you to stay right here, woman.”
Her breath caught. “Good.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
A beat.
Then Effie said, very seriously, “Haymitch.”
“Yeah?”
“Your towels are a disgrace.”
He blinked. “My what now?”
“The way you fold them. Or rather, the absence of folding. Do you… do you roll them? Is this a Capitol protest thing or are you just feral?”
He blinked again. “It’s a towel.”
Effie made a strangled sound and marched to the bathroom. He followed like she’d insulted his geese.
“In this cupboard,” she said, flinging it open with flair, “you have created a horrifying… heap . Towels are not meant to be jammed in like they’re fleeing a crime scene.”
He crossed his arms. “They’re meant to dry you off. They don’t need to be pretty.”
“They need to respect the space ! Here—watch.” She pulled one out, smoothed it against her leg with the reverence of a priestess, and began folding. “In thirds, then in half. Like this. Clean. Elegant. Peaceful.”
He stared. “It’s a cult.”
“It’s civilization .”
“I grew up in a coal town, princess. We were lucky if we had one towel to share with the dog.”
“And now you have many. It’s been a while since you had many, Haymitch, it’s no excuse. Treat them accordingly.”
He watched her finish the stack. Neat. Precise. Satisfying.
“You’re gonna reorganize my whole damn house, aren’t you?”
She smiled sweetly. “Only the parts that offend me.”
Haymitch reached past her, grabbed a towel, and deliberately rolled it like a burrito, locking eyes with her as he shoved it back into the cupboard.
“Monster,” she whispered.
He grinned.
Then, as her smile slipped into something softer, he said, “Effie?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think this is real?”
Her stomach dipped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” he gestured vaguely. “Us. This. The walking, the hand-holding, the kissing in public like we didn’t spend years trying not to verbally murder each other.”
She sat down on the edge of the tub. The air felt heavier all of a sudden. Real.
“I think it’s the first time anything has felt real in a long time,” she said quietly. “For me, at least.”
He sat beside her. Their knees touched.
“I didn’t expect this,” he admitted. “I didn’t let myself.”
She gave a small, sad smile. “Me neither.”
They were quiet a while. Then Effie said, “I don’t know how to do this. Be… with someone.”
“Same,” Haymitch said. “My last relationship ended with my girlfriend getting poisoned up by the Capitol, so, uh. No gold stars for me either.”
Effie winced. “Sorry.”
He shrugged. “You asked.”
She hesitated. Then leaned her shoulder against his. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to stop rolling the towels.”
“Absolutely not.”
She laughed.
And just like that, the heaviness lifted again.
They spent the rest of the afternoon puttering around the house. Effie reorganized two cupboards and labeled the tea jars. Haymitch brought in firewood and pretended not to watch her every time she hummed.
At one point, she found an old book tucked behind a chair cushion — Wuthering Heights , battered and marked with angry pencil notes. She flipped to the inside cover. Haymitch’s name was scrawled in teenage handwriting.
“You annotated?” she asked, half in awe, half in disbelief.
He grunted. “Had to read it for school. Hated every character.”
Effie flipped a few pages.
This idiot deserves to die alone.
Why are they all so awful???
Burn the moors down and start over.
She burst out laughing. “This is art .”
“Keep it. It’ll make you feel superior.”
“I already do.”
It was warm, easy. A kind of comfort that felt earned.
By evening, she was chopping vegetables while he made some noise about “not trusting her near knives.” The fire crackled. Something that wasn’t quite music played low on the old radio.
Effie stirred the soup. Haymitch handed her a spoon.
She tasted.
He watched her mouth.
She swallowed. “Too much salt.”
He swiped the spoon to taste. “Not enough.”
They leaned in at the same time.
Not a kiss this time — just their heads together over a pot of soup, arguing over seasoning like it was life or death. But it felt just as intimate.
Effie nudged his shoulder. “We’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“But I like it.”
He turned to look at her. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
He reached out, tucked a curl behind her ear.
And just like that—another kiss. This one lazy, slow, drawn out like the last rays of sun. Like neither of them had anywhere else to be, ever again.
When they finally broke apart, Haymitch leaned his forehead against hers.
“I’m gonna screw this up.”
“Probably,” she whispered.
“You’ll get tired of me.”
“I’m already tired of you being such a grumpy old man.”
He snorted. “Okay, that’s fair.”
She smiled. “We’ll figure it out. One towel at a time.”
He kissed her again, and again, and again.
By the time the soup was done, neither of them cared if it was too salty.