Archive of Our Own

Effie sat at the dressing table, brushing her hair in slow, rhythmic strokes.

She wasn’t really looking in the mirror. She had learned how to do that years ago. How to look at herself without focusing, until her face became nothing more than a pale blur in the glass.

When she did look, properly, all she saw were layers of time stacked on top of her.

Years of sitting at this same dressing table, drawing a brush through her hair while time etched itself onto her, inside and out. The outside she could soften, disguise, distract from. The inside she could pack away neatly, tuck down deep, and pretend she had misplaced.

But things never stayed buried forever. Not really.

Her brush caught slightly near the ends, and she slowed, eyes drifting to the framed photograph sitting beside the tray of pins and powders. It was her and Prosie, her sister, taken years ago just before the Second Quarter Quell. Both with big smiles, standing with their arms wrapped around each other.

Effie didn’t pick it up. Just looked past her own reflection and let the silver edge of the frame sit in her line of sight.

How many nights had she done this exact same thing?

It was now two days after the Hunger Games had ended. That strange inbetween stretch where the victor was patched up, polished, coached, and made presentable for Panem. They mended in private. And glorified in public.

How many times now?

There had been a party tonight. A friend of a friend, as they always were. A room full of expensive perfumes and sparkling glasses and laughter pitched just a little too high. Effie had worn something beautiful, smiled at all the right moments, and made people feel wonderfully interesting by asking exactly the right questions.

It was practised perfection. She could have done it in her sleep.

After a while, all the parties blurred together. The décor changed. The faces changed. The names in the gossip changed. But the rest of it stayed the same. The same fawning, the same chatter, the same careful performance all dressed up as ease.

Somewhere along the way, Effie had become a cog. Turning and turning, the same actions, the same outcome, while time breezed past her like a ghost.

She was still waiting for her life to begin.

One thing had changed at the parties as she got older. The questions.

When she was younger, they were at least varied. People asked about her plans, her work, her future. After that, it was always the same.

Once, her single friends came alone and stayed late, all bright laughter and gossip. Then, they arrived with husbands and stories about the children at home. Effie nodded and smiled and laughed in all the right places at the antics of twins, or a baby, or, as the years went by, the teenagers those babies had become.

And then came the questions.

“Effie, when are you going to get engaged?”

“Effie, have you met my husband’s second cousin? He’s available. And very handsome.”

“Effie, you don’t want to wait too long to have children, do you”

“Effie, don’t you want a baby?”

“Effie, what happened to that nice man you were seeing?”

“Effie, you spend far too much time working and far too little on your love life, don’t you think?”

“Effie, don’t you know all the good men will be taken if you wait much longer?”

Effie, Effie, Effie.

Some nights the voices came one after another. Tonight, in her memory, they all arrived at once.

For years, she could hardly step into a party without hearing some version of the questions ten times in one night.

And she always gave the same answer.

“Of course.”

Of course, she’d love to meet someone’s husband’s friend.

Of course, she wanted a beautiful wedding and a lovely ring.

Of course, she adored children.

Of course, she wouldn’t want to work forever.

The words came easily and brightly. As if they belonged to her.

Effie wasn’t sure they ever had.

Perhaps, near the beginning, she had thought they were possibilities. Things that might happen to her, one day, in the way people always promised life would.

She wasn’t sure when that changed.

Only that, somewhere along the line, they had stopped sounding like options and started sounding like lines she knew by heart.

Perhaps tonight was the first time she had admitted it to herself.

Or perhaps she had always known, and tonight was simply the first night she couldn’t smooth it over.

At the party, she hadn’t heard the usual questions. Or if people had asked them, they hadn’t reached her. No one seemed to press her about whether she was seeing anyone. No one tried to place some second cousin or charming acquaintance in her path. No one asked about marriage. Or children.

Maybe they had.

Maybe they hadn’t.

Either way, tonight she could only feel one thing.

How much time had passed.

There was still so much life left to live, and yet for the first time she realised she had no real expectation that anything in hers would ever change.

And there was one reason for that.

One reason she had never quit her work.

One reason she had never put her whole heart into dating.

One reason she had never quite believed she would have children of her own.

One reason.

Haymitch.

Effie had always been on his team. In all the ways that mattered, her loyalty had gone to him first. She had chosen her side early, and she had never once stepped off it.

He had been a boy, once, a lifetime ago, when they were both too young and the world had not finished with either of them. She had watched him be cracked open, shattered, broken into pieces too jagged for anyone else to hold.

She had never asked to be the one to witness it.

But she had not fought very hard against it, either.

Because she knew how to mend him. Even when he broke himself further on purpose. Even when he made a ruin of all the careful work. She never stopped. She never walked away.

She kept mending him, and somewhere in the middle of it, he became the thing that held her together too.

Him.

The only person who had ever pulled her closer instead of pushing her away.

To anyone else, it might have looked like he did push her away. He teased her, mocked her, snapped at her, wore that roughness like armour.

But Effie knew him too well. Perhaps better than he knew himself.

He had never pushed her away.

Not once.

He had only ever tried, in his own impossible way, to get closer.

They were the only two people who had never left each other.

They saw what was underneath all the polish and performance. All the cracks, the melted places, and the wear time left behind. They worked as a team. Always had. It was madness, really, and no one understood it. They were Panem’s odd little pairing, the two people everyone assumed wouldn’t be back together for another Games.

And yet they always came back to each other.

They spent months apart, yes, but only because they always knew they would see each other again.

They never really talked about that part. They never said they missed each other. They never found proper words for whatever it was they had.

That was the trouble with knowing someone so well.

After a while, you started to believe you didn’t need to say anything out loud.

That bothered her tonight.

Everything felt like it was repeating.

When Prosie was younger, she had kept some little rodent in a cage in her room. A twitchy thing with bright eyes and a wheel bolted to the bars. Effie could still remember the sound of it at night, the tiny frantic scrabble of feet as it ran and ran and ran.

And went nowhere.

That was what Effie felt like now.

As if her life was all motion and no movement. The same circuit, the same turns, the same view passing by again and again. There was comfort in predictability. More comfort than most people understood, but tonight the thought of it made her chest feel tight.

There was a knock at the door.

It wasn’t unexpected.

She had known it would come.

She drew the brush through her hair one last time, slower than before, then set it down as the second knock came.

He was waiting tonight.

That usually meant he was sober. Or sober enough. In a decent mood, at least.

Part of her was tempted not to answer. To switch off the lamps, crawl into bed, and let him think she was asleep.

To be unpredictable.

To see what he would do.

But she knew she wouldn’t.

Effie had been waiting for him, in the way they always did, without ever arranging it. She had washed her hair. Put on the green satin slip that clung to her and showed every line of her body when she moved.

She wasn’t wearing underwear.

Haymitch liked it either way. There was always a dark look in his eyes when she wore something intricate. Some exquisite bra or a corset with too many hooks and laces, and he had to take his time undoing her. Deliciously slow and anticipatory for both of them.

Sometimes he tore things. Ripped silk and lace with no care at all for cost or craftsmanship, just clawing her out of it like he’d go mad if he didn’t get to her fast enough.

Sometimes they both liked that best.

But the thought of tonight, of nothing between her skin and his hands, of him having immediate access to whatever he wanted, made heat slide low in her stomach.

On the third knock, the impatient one, she got up and crossed the room.

When she opened the door, he didn’t greet her. He walked straight past, as if he barely looked at her at all.

She knew better.

Haymitch could see everything in a blink. He could take in a room, a face, a mood, and file it away before most people had even finished breathing in.

He had seen her.

He just said nothing, and sat down on the edge of her bed.

Effie closed the door. She wasn’t sure why.

There was no one else in the apartment. It was simply something they did. For them, safe sex meant as many locked doors as possible, as many barriers as they could put between themselves and the outside world.

Locked rooms. Cupboards. Dark corners in buildings. Tiny train compartments. The back seats of empty cars.

Small, cramped, hidden places.

She walked toward the bed and saw his gaze settle on the photograph on her dressing table. The same one he had seen a thousand times before. He looked at it as though it might tell him something new, as if he could get more from an old still image than from the very real woman standing in front of him.

“Take your shoes off if you’re staying,” she said as she came closer.

He had already walked across the carpet in them, but she didn’t want them on her new bedding. Not if he was only going to leave right after and all she was left with was a dirty boot print beside her pillow.

He complied. Sometimes he didn’t.

He must have been in a good mood.

Haymitch nudged each shoe off with his toes and left them in a heap on the floor.

Then he moved fast.

Catching Effie by the wrist, he pulled her in until she was straddling his leg, his hands already on her hips, dragging her down onto his thigh.

He hooked a finger under the left strap of her nightgown and tugged it down, baring one breast. He squeezed her, then bent and licked a slow line across her nipple.

She shivered despite herself. Her body was always quicker than her thoughts with him.

It was so easy, with him, to get pulled under. Into the same familiar rhythm where he came in, touched her once, and every protest or bad mood in her body dissolved.

He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking, while one hand slid around her back and gathered her slip up in his fist until her ass was exposed.

The temptation to grind down on his thigh was almost unbearable.

She knew exactly how this would go. They both did. They knew how to touch each other in all the right ways, how to answer each other’s bodies, when to go rough and when to go slow.

Ordinarily, there was something beautiful in that.

Something rare.

Tonight, with that cloud still hanging over her, she could only hear the sameness in it.

And tonight she couldn’t stop thinking about after.

About him drifting off in her bed while she lay half-awake, waiting to see if he would stay till it was nearer dawn or slip out straight away. About that old urge to be unpredictable and ask him to stay all night. She had never dared.

But he hadn’t even said a word to her since he walked through the door.

Good evening to you too,” she muttered.

It was loud enough for him to hear. Effie knew he would catch the tone as well.

She wanted him to.

His mouth stilled against her. Haymitch lifted his head and looked up at her.

“You want me to stop?”

Not all men would ask.

He always did.

She didn’t want him to stop.

That was the problem. She never wanted him to stop. He was different that way from every other lover she’d ever had. With him, it always meant something. It was always a conversation, even when neither of them said much at all, and he was always caring in his own rough way.

She didn’t want him thinking he’d done anything wrong.

It was just this night. This mood. It had put a wrongness over everything.

“I never said that,” she whispered, as though there were anyone else around to hear them.

Effie smoothed and stroked a hand over his hair, unable to stop herself. “You’re back early from drinking.”

It was as if her mind had lost the ability to hold anything in tonight. Every small irritation rose to the surface. Every old bruise of a thought. She felt angry at the world, angry at the life she had made for herself, and some ugly part of her seemed determined to sabotage what little comfort she had.

Haymitch let out a long breath. The kind that said they had had this conversation before, in one form or another. Another circle. Another turn of the wheel.

Only they never quite used the right words to say what they really meant.

“I had one drink,” he said, and gently shifted her with his hands until she was sitting beside him on the bed. She pulled the strap of her slip back up. “I went out while you were at your party, I had a drink at a bar, and I came back.”

“No one at the bar you fancied grabbing onto?” she asked, smoothing the lace at the hem of her slip.

She knew she was being contrary. Knew the words were designed to scratch at some tender wound. She couldn’t seem to stop herself tonight.

He didn’t react the way she expected. He wasn’t heated, he didn’t snap or bite back.

Maybe that was what she wanted. For them to finally throw everything out into the open instead of patting it down and smoothing it over like they always did.

“Are you jealous?”

Effie let out a huff, like the idea was ridiculous.

It wasn’t.

She hated thinking about Haymitch with other women.

It had been worse when she was younger, when she still asked questions she pretended not to care about, or when they were out somewhere and she saw him with someone wrapped around him, laughing too loud at whatever he’d said.

She wasn’t innocent in that either. She had dated, over the years. She had needed the pretence of it, if nothing else.

For herself more than anyone.

It had been a long time since either of them had talked about anyone else, though. He probably didn’t care to know, and she didn’t want to know either. That was easier. Easier than certainty.

It didn’t stop her imagining.

At least, when she didn’t know, there were still moments she could pretend.

Was she jealous?

Was that what the hollow feeling was, every time she pictured another woman touching him the way she did?

Was that what the ache in her stomach was, every time she imagined someone else kissing him?

She wasn’t sure. She only knew she was tired of pretending not to ask herself the question.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, biting her lip.

Effie’s eyes stayed on the photograph, as though the girl in it might have some answer for her. As though that version of herself might have known what to do with all of this.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?” Haymitch asked, turning to face her properly.

If she could have put the feeling into words, perhaps she would have told him.

But how could she explain what it felt like to be trapped in something cracked and spilling, time running through her hands no matter how tightly she held on?

Besides, he hadn’t come here to sit in her room and listen to her thoughts. That wasn’t what he was here for.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “You came here to fuck. Come on.”

She didn’t give him a chance to argue. Effie grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him toward her, kissing him hard and messy before he could get another word out.

If he was going to stop her and talk, this would stop him first.

He kissed her back with the same force, one hand sliding to her ass, grabbing and groping hard. She wanted this fast. Intense. Rough enough to drown everything else out. A sharp, bright high she could ride for a little while before the night settled back over her.

Effie pulled him down onto the bed and shoved Haymitch’s hand between her legs, showing him how wet she was. While he touched her, more carefully than she needed, more carefully than she wanted just then, she fumbled open his belt, yanked down his zip, and worked his trousers lower, stroking him through his boxers.

The loss was immediate when he pulled back.

He sat up, putting space between them. “No. Something’s got you in a mood.”

It infuriated her. That he knew. That he could always tell.

And worse, that it mattered to him.

She didn’t want to be understood tonight. She wanted, just for once, to stop thinking. To forget all of it and pretend they were those younger versions of themselves again, before everything became so layered and hard to name.

It wasn’t as though their problems had been small back then. They had still had mountains of them. But they hadn’t yet had all the years behind them of living through it, navigating it and surviving it. Nor all the years still ahead, with the fear of repeating the same patterns over and over.

He had been cautious at first when they first started having sex. Gentle and sweet. It had been lovely. She did wonder if it would always be so tender and tentative, but she wouldn’t have minded all that much.

Then one time they had bickered about something, she can’t even recall over what. It could barely even be labelled an argument, really. And that night he had bent her over and pounded and fucked her with such raw, furious passion she had still been aching two days later.

He had apologised, in his own way, as if he was surprised that he was actually capable of being so carnal.

Until he realised she had liked it. That he had liked it.

That sex could be rough and powerful and still be full of sweetness and care.

It had been easier to pretend when they were younger. When the feelings had been quieter.

“Are you going to tell me what’s got you in this mood?” Haymitch asked.

What was the answer?

Nothing.

I don’t know.

Everything.

“I’m getting past thirty, and this is my life,” Effie said, and wanted to snatch the words back the moment they were out. To pluck them from the air and tear them into tiny pieces and let the breeze carry them off like dandelion seeds.

He looked at her slowly. “When you say past thirty, do you mean the fact you’re almost forty?”

“That is what I said,” she snapped.

This wouldn’t work. They were not people who snuggled and curled up in bed and spoke plainly about their feelings. Not like that.

She leaned in and tugged at the waistband of his boxers.

Haymitch sighed. “This isn’t always your life. It’s a couple of months of the year, then a week here and there when we get summoned-”

He broke off, glancing down as she pulled his cock free and wrapped her hand around him.

“What are you doing?”

She rolled her eyes and stroked him in the rhythm she knew he liked, twisting her wrist just enough to make him feel it.

“What does it look like? Do you need me to draw you a diagram?” she said. “Let’s just do this. Get it over with and go to sleep. We’ve got an early start in the morning.”

The second Effie said it, she hated how flat it sounded.

“That’s romantic,” Haymitch scoffed. “You jerking me off so I can shove my dick in you and we can get it over with.”

Then he grunted, hips kicking up into her hand on reflex.

She loved doing this to him. Taking him apart with just her hand. She didn’t care about the ache in her wrist or the cramp in her fingers. There was something about reducing him to breath and muscle and need, all of it held in her grip, that made heat roll through her.

She pushed the thought away.

“When was this ever about romance?” she shot back.

His hand flashed out and caught her wrist.

“Okay. Stop.” The grit heavy in his tone, the one he used when he was serious. It was rougher now too, rasping at the edges, and she knew she’d done that. Which only made it worse, him stopping her when she was this close to getting what she needed from the night. “You’re off tonight. I don’t know what’s wrong, but we ain’t doing this.”

He pulled away from her, moved to the end of the bed, and started yanking his pants back into place, heading for the door.

“Oh good,” Effie said, dropping back against the mattress. “Insulted and left frustrated. Your visits just get better and better.”

Haymitch turned, eyes narrowing.

She looked up at him and held his gaze.

That was probably a mistake.

He stood there for a second, jaw set, then came back and sat on the edge of the bed.

“What’s this about?” he asked. “Really.”

She swallowed, suddenly feeling far more exposed than she had a moment ago.

Not because of the slip she was wearing. Not because of her bare legs. Not because of her natural hair and no make up. But because he was looking at her like he was trying to find the thing she wouldn’t say.

“This,” Effie said, motioning between them. “This limbo we’ve fallen into. This predictable little pattern. You go out, then you come back, then we fuck. You leave, or sometimes you stay, and then you skulk out in the early hours when you think I’m asleep.”

“That’s…” He exhaled. “That’s a skewed version of it.”

She gave a brittle little laugh. “Is it?” Tonight she couldn’t tell the difference between the truth and the version of it she was angry enough to believe.

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Haymitch said.

“No, it is what happens,” she said. “I’m not saying it’s all that happens, but it is what happens. I just…I suppose I want to know why.”

“What do you mean, why?” he asked.

“I mean, why do you bother coming to me all the time?” she said. “You’re a victor. And before you say not a very good one, a victor is still a victor. You could go outside, throw a stone, and hit three people who’d happily do whatever sexual act you asked. And that’s not even counting whatever options you’ve got in District Twelve.” She swallowed. “Is it just proximity? I’m a room away, and I don’t say no.”

“Effie, you could not be more wrong,” he said. His voice had gone flat in that dangerous way. “This isn’t you talking. You can’t possibly believe that.”

“It’s literally what happened tonight,” she snapped. She gave a small shiver; suddenly the room felt colder than it had a minute ago. “You came home and came in here to get laid.”

“I didn’t come in here to fuck!” Haymitch shot back, heat rising now. “That wasn’t what I came in for. I came in to say goodnight, check if you were all right, and offer you some tea.”

Effie frowned.

That wasn’t what she had expected him to say.

For a second, the whole night seemed to tilt.

“I’m sorry?” she said. “You came in here because you were going to make me a cup of tea?”

He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Not going to make you tea. I already did. It’s sitting out there on the kitchen counter.”

She looked at him properly then.

His face was open. Irritated, but open. And she couldn’t find even the shape of a lie in it. He wouldn’t lie about something like that anyway.

“Go on,” he said, motioning his head toward the door. “Go and look.”

Effie kept her eyes on him as she slipped off the bed and opened the door.

The floor was cold under her bare feet. She winced at the first step, then padded into the kitchen, the hem of her slip brushing her thighs. It was mostly dark out there, but the smaller lamps were still on, casting low golden pools of light across the counter and the polished cabinets.

On the side, beside the sink, sat a cup of tea. Steam no longer curled from it.

“And before you say it was mine,” Haymitch said from the doorway, “I’ll remind you I don’t drink that chamomile-linden-blossom stuff you make.”

Effie turned to look at him, one hand on her hip. “Yes, you do. No one else is here. You don’t have to pretend to dislike it.”

“Okay, I drink it,” he said, lifting one hand in surrender. “I’ll give you that. But only if I’m stealing yours, or you make it for me. I’d never voluntarily make it for myself.”

She leaned her hip against the counter and looked at the cup as if it might explain the whole night to her. As if it were some magic little brew that, if she drank it, would settle everything back into place.

“You came into my room to offer me tea,” she said again, quieter this time.

“Yeah.” Haymitch stepped further into the kitchen and braced his forearms on the counter across from her, lowering himself a little to meet her where she was. “Then I walked in, saw you dressed like that, looking so fucking good, and every thought in my head fell out. I’m weak. What can I say?”

The corner of her mouth quirked despite herself. Effie bit the inside of her cheek as she studied him.

“Are you weak with other women too?” she asked. “Is that all it takes? They look good, and you let them throw themselves at you?”

He shook his head immediately. “No. You’re different.” He glanced down, then back up at her. “For better or worse, nobody gets a reaction out of me like you do.”

She frowned, and he saw it.

The change in him was small but immediate. His expression easing, his shoulders loosening. He reached across the counter and took her hands in his, his thumbs brushing once over her knuckles.

“That came out wrong,” he said. “What I mean is, there’s no one like you. I just walked in the room and wanted you. That’s all.”

Effie gave a small, soft smile and looked down.

Each word from him felt like a tiny stitch in her heart. Mending something, even as it reminded her how broken it had been all day.

“You said you came in to check if I was all right,” she said. “That’s why you made the tea. Why did you think I wasn’t?”

“You’ve been off all day,” Haymitch replied. “Since last night.”

“No.” She shook her head, firmly, almost automatic. “I’ve only been off since the party this evening. That’s why you kept asking in the bedroom.”

“No, it’s been all day,” he said, just as wilfully. “Since that event yesterday. Since that old cow Mrs Hooten started talking about Prosie. About how sad it was that she…” He stopped. “That she was so young when it happened.”

Effie went still.

Completely still.

Her fingers tightened around his without her meaning them to.

At the event yesterday, she had smiled through it. Kept moving. Kept talking. It was important to mingle. The Games might be over, but it was never too early to start building the right conversations for next year’s sponsors.

She had handled it.

Or she had thought she had.

Mrs Hooten’s words had hit like their mark like a poisoned arrow. Something sharp she had pulled free and thrown away before anyone noticed. Only the toxin had already got in. Slow and mean and spreading, working through her all day until everything familiar felt wrong.

“I kept asking if you were all right because I wanted you to know you could talk to me, if you needed to,” Haymitch said quietly. “About Prosie, if you wanted to.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, once, then again.

“You think I don’t notice when something hurts you?”

She gave a small shrug.

Not because she didn’t know the answer.

She did.

But because admitting it, even now, felt like loosening the lid on something they had spent years keeping shut.

“Do you notice when something hurts me?” he asked.

She nodded.

His mouth tipped at one corner, not quite a smile. “See? We keep an eye on each other, you and me. That’s how it works with us. I can’t always say I’ve been good at acting on it, but I’m always thinking about whether you’re alright.”

Something in her loosened at that.

The kitchen still felt dim and close around them, all warm lamplight and cooled tea and the faint scent of chamomile, but the tightness in her chest eased a little. She felt more like herself again. Or near enough to it.

Effie tried not to think about how, once the Victor’s Ceremony was over, he would be gone again.

That was a problem for another day.

“I can’t believe you let the tea get cold after making such an effort,” she said, a small laugh slipping out of her as she traced her thumb over his palm and up the inside of his wrist.

“I was thinking I could pass it off as iced tea,” he said.

She leaned closer across the counter, her mouth curving. “You were thinking that while you were mauling me in my room, were you?”

Haymitch gave a short huff of a laugh, but the smile faded almost immediately. He stilled her hand where it rested against his wrist, fingers closing gently around hers.

“What you said before,” he said. “About being the easy option. Out of all the women. That ain’t true.”

Effie’s gaze dropped to their hands. She put on a bright, airy tone, because the calm had only just settled and she didn’t want to lose it. “Well, I know that. You remind how high maintenance I am at least twice a week.”

“No, I don’t mean that.” He shook his head, frowning at himself, trying again. “I mean…you’re not the easy option because…you are the only option. I don’t sleep around. Haven’t, not for a long time. There ain’t anyone else I want.”

He said it like a fact, not a confession, which somehow made it hit harder.

For a second she forgot to breathe.

Her fingers twitched in his grip.

“Why not?” Effie asked, quieter than she meant to.

The question came out sharper in her head than it did aloud. As if some small, frightened part of her still expected him to laugh and take it back.

“Because sleeping with someone should be about trust. And care. And wanting them. Not just…bodies slapping against each other as strangers.” His thumb moved once against her fingers. “That’s when it’s best, isn’t it?” Haymitch tilted his head slightly. “Do you get that with any of the men you date?”

She could have lied.

In a hundred different ways, she could have lied. She could have implied there were men. That she trusted some of them. That she cared for them. That she had let any of them close.

But somewhere deep down, in the same place she knew there had been no one else for him, she knew he would know the truth.

There’s not been anyone else for me either,” Effie confessed. “No matter how many blind dates people try to push me into. I just can’t. Not for a long time.”

His grip on her hands tightened slightly, just enough for her to feel it.

“You really think I’m out here grabbing onto any airhead Capitol girl that comes my way?” Haymitch asked. “You think any of them can give me what we have? I might as well just sit in my room and beat my meat than go with them.”

Effie dropped his hands at once and stepped back with a huff. “You are so uncouth sometimes.”

He smiled, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “It’s just how I am.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “No, it isn’t. You just do it to annoy me.”

That grin widened. He wiggled his fingers at her and held out his hand again, waiting.

She looked at it for a moment, at his knuckles, the marks and at the easy familiarity of it. Then she shuffled back across the kitchen tiles and placed her hand in his.

“When I said earlier, about the limbo we’re in…” She glanced down at their joined hands, then back up. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like what we have isn’t good. It is. I’m just not always sure what it is. The sex we have is…”

“It’s a lot,” Haymitch said with a rough laugh. “And spectacular. And, look, there ain’t much we haven’t done.” He rubbed his thumb slowly over the back of her hand. “What we have is unusual, I know. I get that. I just don’t know how to label it either.”

Effie let that sit between them for a moment, along with the smell of cold tea and the low hum of the apartment lights.

Then she asked, quieter, “Do you ever feel like you’re just sleepwalking?”

His expression shifted.

“Like there was a life before you won the games,” she went on. “And then a life after it. And you’re just…moving through it.”

Haymitch held her gaze for a second, something unreadable passing over his face.

Then, instead of answering, he tugged gently on her hand and started toward the door.

“Come on,” he said.

She stared at him for a second, frowning, before he clicked his tongue under his breath, caught her hand, and started for the front door.

“Wait…what?” she said, stumbling after him. “What are you doing?”

That, at least, made him pause.

He turned back, grabbed his coat from where it hung by the door, and shoved it into her hands. “Put that on.”

She was too thrown to argue properly. She slipped her arms into it, the lining still warm from his body, and let him pull her out into the hallway.

The air outside the penthouse was cooler and sharper. It hit her skin and snapped her into herself.

Effie stopped dead.

“We’re not wearing shoes,” she said, horror flooding her voice as she looked down at her bare feet on the polished floor.

Haymitch rolled his eyes and tugged her onward. “We’re not going out partying.”

He led her toward the narrow stairwell door that opened onto the stairs to the roof.

“I don’t even have socks on,” Effie hissed, clutching his coat closed at her throat as she followed. “Imagine if I was seen. What would they say? What if someone photographed me?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “You want headline suggestions?”

She glared.

He grinned. “No Sox Appeal.”

“You are an awful, awful man,” she said, trying for severity as they started up the stairs, one hand on the rail, the other bunching the coat around herself.

The concrete steps were cold underfoot. The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and metal and old heat. Somewhere above them, a vent hummed.

Haymitch sighed like she was impossible, then stopped halfway up, bracing one hand on the rail as he bent to peel off his socks.

He straightened and shook them at her.

Effie blinked at him. Then took them, wrinkling her nose. “I would prefer it if they were clean,” she said, but she was already sitting on the step to tug them on.

They were too big and still warm.

Apologies,” he said dryly. “That I don’t carry a boutique of fancy stockings in my pocket for you to choose from. I know how much you’d enjoy that.”

She stood and stepped past him, now a little less scandalised, the socks slouching around her ankles. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it more,” she said, with a smirk and one raised brow.

He moved before she finished the look.

His hands caught her at the waist and spun her around so fast she pitched forward with a gasp, grabbing at his shoulders, her arms sliding around his neck to steady herself.

Effie smiled at the fact that, standing one step above him, she was finally taller without heels.

Then she bent and kissed him.

She started gentle, teasing, but he was already too fired up for gentle. His hands locked around her waist and he deepened the kiss almost immediately, dragging her closer until her knees bumped into him.

They broke apart for a breath. Haymitch kissed her again, quick on the mouth, eyes glinting up at her.

She knew that look.

“A minute ago you were panicking about bare feet,” he murmured, while she scattered kisses along his jaw. “And now you’re trying to lure me in with talk of you wearing stockings.”

Effie gave a soft laugh against his skin. “Oh, what, my bare legs and your old socks don’t do it for you?”

He leaned back just enough to look at her, then kissed her once more, slower this time. “Oh no,” he said. “They definitely do.”

His mouth moved from her lips to her throat, then lower, kissing down the line of her neck and over the top of her chest as he dropped to his knees on the step below.

The stairwell suddenly felt too small.

He slid his hand over her calf, then up, fingers slow and deliberate, brushing from her ankle all the way to the lace edge of her slip. The socks he’d given her had already slipped down around her ankles. She could feel the roughness of the concrete through the thin fabric and the heat of his hand climbing her leg at the same time.

Effie held her breath, waiting for him to push higher.

Instead, Haymitch bent and kissed the same path his fingers had traced. Soft, open mouthed kisses from shin to knee, then up the inside of her thigh. She dropped one hand into his hair and kept it there, fingers curling, not pushing, just holding him close.

As he moved higher, her breathing turned ragged.

She lowered herself onto a step above him, the concrete cool under the backs of her thighs, and lifted one leg over his shoulder. His hands tightened on her instantly, one at the back of her knee, the other sliding under her slip with less patience now.

His breath was heavier against her skin.

With a rough, hurried grip, he shoved the hem of her slip up and sucked hard at the tender skin of her thigh, right where he knew it would make her jolt.

She did.

Her grip in his hair tightened, a warning and a plea all at once.

“Fuck,” Haymitch muttered, low and half wrecked. He pressed his mouth higher, nose nudging in, lips brushing hot, lingering kisses just around her slit. “What would the headlines say if someone photographed this?”

Effie went still and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, his words still ringing in her head.

“Anyone could see us here,” she said, a little breathless. “Anyone could come into this stairwell any second.” She glanced down at herself and gave a scandalised little huff. “Me, with this hair, no makeup, and your socks.”

That wasn’t really why.

They had been caught before. More than once. No matter how many dark corners and locked rooms they found, no matter how careful they were, they had still had more near misses than she could count.

And if she was honest, she didn’t care much tonight about being seen.

What she cared about was the fact that they hadn’t finished talking.

Effie knew exactly how this would go if she let Haymitch carry on. He would fuck her on the stairs and it would be brilliant, and then they would go back downstairs warm and blissed out, and the conversation, the important part, would vanish again beneath everything else.

She wasn’t ready to lose it.

She pushed herself upright, tugging her negligee back down under his coat, and stepped away from him. Then she turned and started climbing the stairs again.

After a few steps, she realised he wasn’t behind her.

She looked back.

Haymitch was face-down on the stairs, one arm thrown over his head like a man struck dead.

“I hate my stupid mouth,” he mumbled into the step.

Effie laughed, warm and helpless despite herself. She came back down a few stairs and held out her hand. “Come on.”

He groaned, rolled onto his side, and took her hand. His grip was strong as ever as he hauled himself to his feet and let her pull him upward.

“I happen to like your clever mouth,” she said, smirking as she turned and kept climbing.

She felt him step in close behind her. A second later he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, all heat and apology and promise at once.

There was such a sweetness in him when they were alone like this.

They couldn’t really do it in front of other people. Not this version of themselves. Around everyone else, all the feeling between them came out sideways. Banter, bickering and flirtation so sharp and pointed it crackled just of heat. But alone, it softened.

They reached the roof door. Haymitch tried the handle, then pushed it open with his shoulder and ushered Effie through first.

Once they were inside, he pulled the door shut behind them and glanced around. Then, with the same practical focus he brought to everything, he crossed to a wide stone plant pot and dragged it in front of the door. Not enough to lock it. Enough to slow anyone down.

The roof was warmer than she expected.

Late summer heat still clung to the night, and the artificial heaters tucked between the planters took the edge off the breeze. The air smelled faintly of damp soil and metal and something floral she couldn’t quite place.

She had never been up here in winter. She imagined the cold would be vicious then, clinging to every rail and tile with sharp white fingers.

The plants made the rooftop feel lush, almost alive, spilling from polished containers and climbing trellises lit from below. Some of them had to be artificial. She couldn’t tell which.

She wasn’t supposed to be able to.

That was the Capitol’s real talent.

Things were almost never what they seemed.

Effie crossed to the low wall at the edge of the roof and rested her hands on the warm stone.

Haymitch came to stand beside her, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers now and then, and leaned his forearms on the wall. Below them, Capitol lights burned in neat, glittering grids. Somewhere far beneath, traffic hummed like a distant machine that never slept.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then he tipped his head back and looked up at the stars.

“Today’s a day where I feel like I could handle whatever gets thrown at me,” he said. “And for you it’s been one where it feels like someone dumped a bucket of rocks on your shoulders.” He glanced sideways at her. “I know it’s usually the other way round for us. You’re better at carrying that kind of thing than I am.”

Effie turned so her back rested against the wall, facing him instead of the sky.

She didn’t want to look at the stars. They never gave her much. Just distance.

“I never feel like I’m coping,” she said quietly. “I feel like I’m sometimes holding us both together with hope and a wish.”

His jaw shifted, the way it always did when he was choosing words carefully.

“I can’t offer what I don’t have,” Haymitch said. “This life… this is what it is. We’re in it together. Same as we’ve always been.”

“It won’t change,” she murmured.

She wasn’t sure if she meant it as a statement or a question.

Effie watched his face, waiting to see which one he heard. “This life?”

“Maybe.” There was the smallest lift in his voice. Not enough to call optimism, but enough to catch her attention. “Maybe not.” He looked out over the city again. “But I know this much. You’ve got my back, and I’ve got yours. That part doesn’t change.”

She felt herself smile, small and unwilling.

There was something in his tone, though. Something held back. Something he had chosen not to say.

“What do you think might happen?” she asked.

Haymitch was still for a moment, then shook his head.

“Probably nothing.”

She looked at him, not the skyline.

People always took her for the naïve one. Decorative and harmless. They saw the dresses and the smile and decided that was the whole of her.

They forgot she had grown up in the Capitol, in a family people were polite to in public and wary of in private. She had been raised around whispers, omissions and careful alliances. She knew what it sounded like when a room changed before anyone said why.

Haymitch was quick. Quicker than most people ever realised. He had a sharp mind and a strategist’s instincts buried under all that roughness and charm. But he hadn’t grown up in these streets. He hadn’t spent his early years learning how Capitol people disguised fear as manners.

He could sense danger.

Effie could sense the direction of it.

And tonight, in the way he said probably nothing, she could feel the wind shifting.

When they were young, both of them fresher-faced, and neither of them yet fully crushed by the consequences of the lives they’d been pushed into, they had learned quickly to wrap themselves in personas.

It was survival.

If people thought you were harmless, or foolish, or exactly what they expected, they stopped looking too closely.

Haymitch didn’t need to tell her anything.

Effie was used to being left in the dark and still knowing which way things were moving.

She knew his silence came from fear. Not of her, never of her, but of what might happen if he said too much. Of wanting to keep her safe in the only ways he knew how.

Words never had much power.

Actions were what mattered.

Neither of them had asked for the lives they’d been given, but they had spent twenty years caring for each other inside them anyway.

She reached for his hand and tugged him closer. Looking up at him through her lashes, she gave him that smile, the one he always understood.

Haymitch huffed a laugh the second he saw it. “Quiet stairwell was too exposed, but now you want to do this with the whole Capitol watching?”

Instead of answering, she pulled him down and kissed him.

Effie clutched at whatever part of him she could catch. His shirt, his shoulder, his waist, and kissed him like she could outrun the whole night by doing it. He always made her feel more alive than her own thoughts did. Blood rushing, skin waking, every nerve in her body turning toward him.

He stepped in between her legs, crowding her gently against the wall, and slid both hands under the coat she was still wearing. His palms found her the thin material through the opening, and moved warm and rough over her waist and ribs, grabbing handfuls of her as if to check she was really there.

She pulled back just enough to breathe, biting her lip.

“Do you like this?” she asked. She traced one finger down the line of her throat, over the green satin stretched over her breasts, then lower over her stomach, dragging the tip of her finger to the damp heat between her legs and pressing and rubbing there through the material.

His eyes dropped and stayed there.

“Yeah,” Haymitch said, voice dropping into gravelly roughness. “But I’d like it better off you.”

Effie started shrugging out of his coat while his hands settled low on her hips, thumbs digging in. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and she tossed it over the wall behind her.

He glanced after it and gave her a look with his eyes twinkling “You don’t want to hang that up?”

She ignored him completely and dragged him back in by the front of his shirt, kissing him hard enough to shut him up.

It was passionate and messy one moment, then slower the next. Tongues teasing, mouths softening, and then turning hungry again.

She felt him harden against her and reached down, rubbing him through his pants, her palm firm and deliberate.

Haymitch pulled back just enough to get at his belt, fumbling the buckle loose in quick, impatient movements, then shoved his pants and boxers down together.

Effie laughed when the whole mess got tangled around one ankle while he was trying to drag his shirt over his head.

He swore under his breath. She grabbed the hem and helped yank it free, and the second it was off he tapped her on the backside, sharp and quick, brows lifting.

“You finding something funny?” he asked, sliding both hands up under her slip to grab her ass properly.

His grin gave him away. He wasn’t annoyed in the slightest.

“No,” she said, breathless already. “I’m just making sure we look happy in case a hovercraft goes past and sees us.

“You want to go inside?” he asked, but his mouth was already back on her, slipping down to her breast and sucking her nipple between his lips through the thin material.

“No,” Effie gasped, and then, when he pulled her flush to him and hooked her leg around his waist, “Oh, fuck.”

Her head tipped back. His cock dragged hot and slick at her entrance while her hands locked behind his neck, fingers digging into his skin. He yanked at the green satin, ripping the front of her slip open enough to bare her breasts completely.

Haymitch kept his mouth on her, lapping and sucking at her tit while his other hand groped and squeezed the other breast, thumb and forefinger pinching her nipple just hard enough to make her jolt.

The low wall dug into her back through the coat she’d thrown there, the pressure sharp even through the fabric. It should have been uncomfortable.

Instead, it felt incredible.

That hard edge at her spine. His hands on her breasts. The slick slide of his cock between her thighs. The night air on her skin. Everything a little rough, a little too much, exactly right.

He lifted his head and bit at the side of her neck before kissing the same spot, rougher now, no pretence of gentleness.

He was good at this. At reading her.

At knowing what she wanted on any given day, what kind of touch her body was asking for before she put it into words. He called her contrary sometimes, because one night she wanted slow and sweet and the next she wanted to be held down and fucked senseless.

But he was no different.

That was why it worked.

It was never predictable, even after all these years. Always safe. Always familiar.

And still capable of knocking the breath out of her.

He would definitely leave marks. More than one.

Effie bruised easily. Pale skin that held onto every bite, every grip, every hard kiss. And she knew he liked it, liked seeing where he’d been on her body. She liked it too. Even when it meant extra powder and clever necklines the next day, she didn’t care.

They were theirs.

Their own little secrets.

By morning, she’d have to hide them. Tonight, she wanted them.

His hand slid back under what was left of her negligee, though with how much he’d already ripped, it was barely hanging on her anyway.

Haymitch rubbed her first, circling slowly, exactly where he knew she liked it. Just off-center, a little to the left, building her up with deliberate strokes until her breath hitched. Then he pushed one finger inside her, curling it as he moved, slow and deep.

She made a small sound against his mouth.

He added a second finger and kept the same pace, dragging them in and out of her while his thumb pressed where she was already aching for him.

Effie leaned forward and kissed whatever she could reach. His mouth, his jaw, the corner of his throat, while he worked her open.

Then he pulled his fingers free.

She felt the loss for a split second before he dragged the last scraps of green satin down and let them fall, the ruined slip dropping around her ankles with his socks, and then he pushed into her.

Haymitch groaned, a low, wrecked sound that went straight through her.

He didn’t rush it.

He moved deliciously slow, dragging in and out of her while they kissed, as if he was making himself hold back even though she could feel how hard it was costing him.

Her breaths came out in soft, audible catches. Effie kept her eyes on him and didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

For a few seconds it was only that. His mouth, his body, the rough stone at her back, and the way he watched her like he wanted to catch every flicker of feeling on her face.

He only broke eye contact when she slipped her hand between them and touched herself, fingers moving around her clit while he kept thrusting into her in that same slow rhythm.

She sped herself up.

He stayed maddeningly steady.

The contrast tore through her. His slow, deep strokes and her quick, focused touch until every nerve in her body felt lit up and straining.

Her leg tightened around his waist. Her fingers pressed harder into this skin. Effie could feel herself starting to tense around him.

Her moans grew louder. Not because she couldn’t hold them in, but because she wanted to let them out.

She wanted him to hear exactly what he was doing to her.

“Fuck,” Haymitch muttered, jaw clenching. She could feel how hard he was working to keep that slow rhythm instead of just losing it. “Did I ever tell you how fucking hot you are?”

She laughed, breathless, already on the edge. “Yeah. I think you did once, live on television, right before you tripped over a cameraman.”

He made a rough sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a groan.

Effie slid her free hand around to grab his ass, fingers digging in just enough to hold him to that same pace. He would have kept it anyway. He was good at that, but he liked it when she took control like this, when she pushed back and made him stay exactly where she wanted him.

“You know I think you’re fucking gorgeous, right?” Haymitch said. “You know I think about this…us like this…when we’re around people? Think about grabbing you and bending you over right there in front of all of ’em?”

The words went through her like a spark.

She loved when he talked like this, filthy and blunt and honest about what he wanted to do to her. Loved that he knew exactly what it did to her and did it anyway, on purpose.

They were too far gone to kiss properly now. Just open mouths, shared breath, gasps and half-kisses, tongues touching between words.

Effie sped up her fingers, just a little, then shifted to the side and found the exact spot that made her body go tight all at once.

Her head dropped to his shoulder as she came, her leg shakily slipping from his waist to the rooftop tiles. She went still around him, gasping through the waves as they ran through her, quick and relentless and then deep and warm and easing.

Haymitch stayed with her through it, still inside her, still holding her up.

As her breathing started to slow, she felt the change in him. His mouth at her forehead, a kiss there, then another. One hand stroked through her hair, smoothing it back from her face while he murmured something soft against her ear she didn’t quite catch.

“There’s probably some bastard in one of those towers with a telescope having the time of his life,” he said, the words coming out in staggered grunts with the effort of it.

He was trying not to move.

Failing.

His hips kept giving these small, helpless thrusts into her, like his body had stopped listening to him entirely, and she could feel how badly it was costing him.

Effie looked him in the eyes, the way she had a thousand times before.

It never lost its impact.

Every time still felt like the first.

Then she shifted, drawing back just enough that he slipped out of her. “Then let’s give him something worth watching,” she said.

She turned and bent over the low wall, bracing herself on the coat she’d thrown there.

Haymitch didn’t waste a second.

Effie didn’t even need to look back. She felt his hand land on her hip, warm and firm, and she edged her feet apart a little more, knees soft, biting her lip as she waited for him.

He slid back into her easily, not slow this time.

There was no teasing. No patience. Just a few deep strokes to find his rhythm, and then he cursed under his breath, grabbed her other hip, and started fucking her properly.

Effie gripped the edge of the wall, fingers tightening in the coat. Her legs still felt unsteady from her orgasm, and not being able to see him, only feel him, made everything sharper. Every thrust hit harder when all she had was the pressure of his hands, the drag of him inside her, and the sound of him behind her.

Her breasts knocked lightly against the wall with each movement, a soft slap of skin and stone that sent a bright little sting through her. It only made it better.

The angle of his thrusts was brutal in the best way. Not quite the exact spot, but close enough to keep her body straining for it. She liked that too. That almost-there feeling. The way it made her feel like one small shift could make her buzz out of her skin with pleasure all over again.

His pace was rough and steady, then faltered for a second and she felt his hands leave her hips.

One slid up under her arm to cup her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple as he pulled her back against him. She gasped when he slipped out in the change, feeling empty for half a second.

Then Haymitch pushed all the way back in and she let out a loud, helpless breath at the force of it.

His other hand slid into her hair, stroking through it once before curling his fingers into it.

He caught a handful near the roots and tugged, and she lifted her head with a sharp breath, throat exposed, while he bent over her and sucked hard at the side of her neck.

She swore, loud and unashamed, and let her moans rise with the sound of them. Skin striking skin, the wet, heavy slap of his body driving into hers, his grunts breaking against her ear with a mix of filthy words and soft ones.

The rhythm of his thrusts started to lose its steadiness.

Not weaker.

Wilder.

She knew he was close.

Effie reached one arm back, grabbing whatever she could. His thigh. Hard muscle slick with sweat, and dug her nails in. It made him pull her hair tighter and clamp harder around her breast, and the jolt of it sent her body flashing with life.

She was so slick now she could barely feel his cock pounding in and out of her, not properly, just the fullness and the ricochet in her cunt. But she felt everything else on full volume. The buzz in her nerves, the sting where his hand held her tits, the ache in her hips and the pressure of the wall under her hands.

Pain and pleasure blurred together until her whole body felt lit from the inside.

Like the best party she’d ever been to was happening under her skin. Every sense turned all the way up, every nerve awake, every feeling too loud and too good and impossible to hold.

The kind of feeling you never wanted to end.

Haymitch let go of her hair carefully, almost gently, and brought both hands back to her hips.

His last thrusts slowed, but they hit harder. Deep, pounding strokes that rocked her against the wall and made the coat bunch under her fingers.

Effie heard her name when he came.

It came out rough and low as he emptied inside her, his hands tightening hard on her hips while he shuddered through it.

Sometimes he didn’t finish like this.

Sometimes he pulled out and came over her back. Sometimes he turned her around and she took him in her mouth and swallowed. Sometimes in another way altogether. Effie never quite knew which way he’d want it, and she liked that. Liked never being able to predict him completely.

But this.

Feeling him come inside her, still buried deep, still holding her like that.

This was different.

This was one of her favourites.

Haymitch was breathing hard behind her, one hand moving slowly up and down her back.

He stayed like that for a moment, close and heavy against her, before he shifted and lifted her slightly, settling his forehead against the curve between her neck and shoulder with an unexpected tenderness that made something in her chest ache.

Then his hand slid down her stomach.

His fingers found her again, practiced and precise, stroking her clit in slow, knowing circles.

The pressure built softly this time. Not frantic, not desperate, but warm and spreading, like sunlight sinking through her skin. Another few strokes, and she tipped over with a quiet gasp, small waves splashing gently through her body into soft bliss.

He kissed her neck. Her cheek. Her hair.

His hands moved over her body in slow, absent strokes, soothing now.

Effie turned her head and looked at him properly. At the eyes she had spent years learning, years comforting, years loving.

Eyes that had watched half her life and loved her back in every way except the one either of them had ever said aloud.

They never used that word.

They never had.

But not saying it had never made it less true.

Words didn’t have power.

Actions were what mattered.

Haymitch slipped out of her and reached for the coat bunched over the wall. His hand went straight to the pocket, and he pulled out a handkerchief.

Effie almost smiled.

She always made sure he carried one.

He handed it to her, then draped the coat around her shoulders before turning to gather his clothes. Once he’d tugged his trousers back on, he passed her his boxer shorts without looking, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

It was, for them.

Effie cleaned herself off as best she could with the handkerchief, then stepped into his boxers and pulled them up beneath the coat. The fabric was loose and warm and smelled like him.

She lowered herself to the rooftop beside the wall and sat with her back against the stone.

Her body still hummed.

She could feel the echo of him inside her, her muscles still remembering the rhythm of his thrusts.

Effie had barely settled before Haymitch came down beside her and reached for her hand.

She shifted closer at once and rested her head on his shoulder.

This was always the part that made her stomach dip.

The part after, when everything had gone soft and warm and she didn’t know how long he would stay beside her. The part she never had any control over.

Her eyes drifted shut, heavy with the calming rhythm of his breathing and the heat still humming through her body. It had been a long day. The sex had wrung the rest of it out of her.

“Hey,” he said gently, thumb brushing her cheek. “We can’t fall asleep up here. That escort from Five comes up every morning to water the fake plants.”

Effie made a sleepy little sound of amusement. “She’s an odd sort, isn’t she? People don’t really talk about that.”

Haymitch laughed under his breath. “You don’t think we get called odd? She looks like a poster girl for sanity compared to what they say about us.”

“Fair point,” Effie murmured, yawning as her eyes slipped shut again.

He nudged her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll make you some tea you can actually drink this time.”

She let him pull her to her feet, swaying a little as she stood. “If you’re making it, I doubt it’ll be anything fit for human consumption.”

He clutched at his chest in mock offense and she smiled, tired and fond.

They gathered themselves slowly, half-dressed and still a little dazed, and made their way back toward the roof door. The plant pot scraped faintly as Haymitch shifted it aside.

As they stepped into the stairwell light, Effie caught sight of them reflected dimly in the glass panel of the door and almost laughed.

They looked wrecked.

Hair wild. Lips swollen. Faces flushed. Marks already darkening at throats and shoulders. Scratches. Bruises. The kind of soreness that would bloom properly by morning.

But Effie didn’t care.

For such a grey cloud of a day, she had the strange, certain feeling that this would be one she would never forget.

Soon ,it would be a story they laughed about.

That time they fucked on the roof, and the next morning the escort from Five found Effie’s ruined green slip by the planters and paraded it around the Training Centre like evidence of some scandalous crime against horticulture.

Soon, it would be that day Haymitch pulled her back to herself.

One of many times he would.

And in worse times, the kind she could not yet see clearly, only feel coming like weather, it would be one she remembered and held onto, because it proved he had before saved her before, and would again.

Soon, it would be that day she finally chose to be unpredictable.

The day she stepped off the well-worn path.

By the time they reached the penthouse door, her heart was beating harder than it had on the roof.

Effie looked at him as he reached for the handle.

“Haymitch,” she said, and he turned.

The question she had wanted to ask for years sat in her throat for one terrified second.

“Will you stay with me tonight?”

He smiled.