Jack

You’re sitting at the corner of the nurse’s station, absently filling out paperwork, when Yaminah plops into the chair beside you with a sigh so dramatic it makes your pen skid off the page.

You glance over.

“Long mornin’?”

She flops her head to the side, cheek squishing against her shoulder as she stares at you. “Every child in District 12 under the age of six has apparently decided today is the perfect day to eat rocks.”

You bite back a smile. “Again?”

“It’s always this time of the month,” she mutters.

You snort softly and return to your chart.

It’s quiet again for a moment—just the soft scrawl of your pen and the hum of machines from down the hall.

And then Yaminah shifts in her seat, leans closer, and says casually, “So… you gonna tell me why you’ve been glowing since you walked in this morning?”

You freeze.

Your pen stutters on the paper again.

“I—” You blink hard, heart jumping. “What?”

“Oh don’t play dumb with me, ma’am.” She spins her chair a little to face you more directly. “You’ve had a look on your face all morning. Like someone handed you a basket of kittens and whispered all your favorite compliments into your ear.”

Your face burns. “I do not.”

“Do too.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re all floaty. Blushy. Dreamy. And don’t even try to tell me it’s just ‘cause you slept good last night.”

“I did sleep good last night,” you mumble.

“Mhm.” She leans in. “So. Spill it.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to tell her. You kind of do. It’s just… it’s still so new. So soft. Like if you say it out loud, it might drift away like steam off a warm drink.

But Yaminah’s your friend.

And she’s looking at you like she already knows but she’s just waiting for you to say it first.

So, after a second of chewing your lip, you whisper, “We kissed.”

Silence.

Then, “Oh my god?!”

You flinch and shush her immediately, eyes wide as you look around. “Yaminah!”

But she’s already gripping your arm with both hands, eyes comically wide. “You kissed? Like kiss-kissed? Like lips on lips? Haymitch?”

You nod, cheeks burning so hot they feel like they might actually combust.

“Oh my god,” she repeats, but it’s quieter this time—more awed than loud. “Okay. Okay. I need details. Who kissed who? How did it happen? Did you melt? Was it good?”

You try to hide your face behind your hand. “Stop.”

“No, no, no—don’t clam up on me now. You owe me for all the hours I’ve spent listening to you sigh into your lunch.”

You groan, but your smile’s already betraying you.

“It just… happened,” you mumble. “We were talking and it was soft and then he—he kissed me.”

Yaminah makes a sound that’s somewhere between a squeal and a gasp. “He kissed you. Oh my god. Wait, when was this?”

“Last night.”

“And you’ve just been—what? Living your normal life since then? Like you didn’t just kiss the hottest grump in District 12?”

“What was I s’posed to do?”

“I don’t know! Float into work wearing a crown? Come in wearing his shirt like a trophy? Something!”

You snort and hide your face again. “You are not normal.”

“And you kissed Haymitch Abernathy.”

You peek out from behind your hands. “…It was really good.”

Yaminah softens instantly. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly, smile turning dreamy. “Yeah.”

She leans her elbow on the desk and rests her chin on her fist, eyes glittering. “You like him so much.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“Does he know?”

You bite your lip. “…I think he might.”

She reaches over and squeezes your arm. “I’m so happy for you.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Duh. I’ve seen the way he looks at you the few times I’ve stopped by.” She grins. “You’re his person, babe.”

Your throat gets tight all of a sudden.

You blink again, quickly this time, and smile at your paperwork to keep from getting too teary.

Yaminah bumps her knee against yours. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Jus’—yeah.”

She leans over and stage-whispers, “Bet he’s gonna kiss you again the second he sees you.”

You’re still smiling when you reach for the next file.

Yaminah’s watching you like you’ve grown wings.

“You’re being real casual about all of this for someone who just kissed her soulmate,” she says, crossing her arms. “Like, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this plotline to pay off?”

You roll your eyes, cheeks still warm. “I don’t think this counts as a plotline.”

“Sure it does. Girl meets grumpy man. Girl turns him to mush. Then they kiss.”

You snort. “You’re unbearable.”

“I’m correct.” She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “So, what now? Are you guys gonna, like… date? Are you official? Is he gonna court you with emotionally repressed grunts?”

You laugh, actually laugh, and try not to look too giddy as you tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear.

And then—because it feels too big to keep to yourself—you say it.

“Well… I guess I’m kinda gonna be living with him permanently now.”

Yaminah blinks.

You look down at your paperwork again.

“Like… I found out the other day that the house I was s’posed to move into when I got here? It’s finally ready. That lady from the municipal office stopped by to tell me. But when I told Haymitch about it, I…” You trail off, heart thudding. “I told him I didn’ wanna leave.”

There’s a pause.

You look up.

Yaminah’s staring at you like you’ve just told her the moon fell out of the sky and landed in your lap.

“And he said,” you continue, voice soft, “that he didn’ want me to leave either.”

The chair squeaks as she slaps her hand over her mouth.

“No,” she whisper-screeches through her fingers.

You nod, half-embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“You’re moving in with him?!”

“Shh!” You glance around the room, mortified.

“Oh my god,” she says, hands still pressed to her face. “You’re living with him. Like, actually living with him. Like… in the same house. All the time.”

You shrug helplessly. “I already was living with him.”

“Yeah, but now it’s real! Now it’s intentional! Now it’s not just ‘oh, your assigned house isn’t ready,’ it’s ‘oh, I love you so much, please stay forever.’”

Your face flames instantly. “Yaminah—”

She grabs both your wrists and shakes them. “That’s what this is! He said stay, you said okay, you kissed. You’re nesting already. This is endgame behavior.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Incorrect. You had to tell me. I’m emotionally invested. Tell me more about what it’s like to live with your crush now that he’s your—wait. Is he your boyfriend now?”

Your mouth opens.

Then closes.

Then opens again. “I… don’t know?”

Yaminah gasps like you kicked her in the shin. “You don’t know? Girl, he kissed you and told you to stay! That’s boyfriend behavior if I’ve ever seen it!”

Your head drops to the desk with a soft thunk.

She pats your hair fondly. “It’s okay. I’ll call him your man for you.”

You groan.

She beams.

And despite the teasing and the dramatics—you feel lighter. Less alone in it. Like maybe it’s okay to be a little lost in the haze of it all if someone else is cheering you on from the sidelines.

You don’t know what this next part will look like.

But for the first time in a long time, you’re excited to find out.

The rest of the day passes in a strange kind of slow.

You don’t have many kids scheduled—just a handful of follow-ups and one sleepy toddler with a chesty cough who clings to their mom’s neck the whole time you’re in the room. Yaminah takes the urgent care cases, and even though you offer to help a few times, she waves you off with a smirk and tells you to go “float around and dream about your man or whatever.”

So you do your charting. You clean the exam rooms no one used. You help restock Band-Aids and gloves and those scratchy little paper gowns. And through it all, you keep thinking about him.

Not in a loud, dizzy, fluttery way.

Just… soft.

Steady.

Like every part of you is already reaching for him again.

You didn’t get to see him this morning—not really. Just the shape of him half-asleep on the couch as you tiptoed out the front door with a granola bar in your hand and a whispered ‘bye’ that he probably didn’t even hear.

And now the only thing you want is to get back.

To him.

You walk home fast.

Not a full-out hurry, but your strides are longer than usual. Focused. Intent.

The streets are quiet. Dust curls up under your shoes in little puffs as you pass, the sun already dipping low enough to cast long shadows on the ground. A few voices drift from houses nearby—laughing, soft conversation—but none of it registers.

Your feet know where they’re going.

And your heart is already half through the door.

You reach the edge of the Victor’s Village quicker than you expected, your breath catching just a little as the familiar house comes into view.

Warm light in the front windows.

Curtains drawn partway back.

You smile and walk just a little faster.

Haymitch is home.

You don’t see him when you enter, but you catch the faint sound of movement above you—footsteps crossing the upstairs floor, a soft creak of one of the bedroom doors. Maybe a bathroom cabinet closing. Something domestic. Familiar.

It settles into your chest like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

You don’t call out.

Don’t go looking for him.

You just smile to yourself, small and private, and drift quietly down the hall to your room.

The air of the house wraps around you like a blanket, softening the last of the day’s tension. You slip off your shoes and let the quiet fill in the spaces between your thoughts as you move through the familiar rhythm of it all.

Shower.

Soft clothes.

A fresh towel for your hair.

It’s all simple. Routine. Easy in a way that nothing ever used to be.

You don’t rush, but your hands move faster than usual.

Because you know he’s here.

And something about that makes your whole body feel restless in the best kind of way.

By the time you step out into the hallway again, you feel warm and clean and just a little too aware of the fact that he’s somewhere in this house with you and you haven’t seen him yet.

You don’t hear the TV until you’re nearly to the living room.

It’s low, some kind of news broadcast playing. The sound of it wraps around you as you round the corner, the flickering light catching the edge of the wall before you even see him.

And then you see Haymitch.

Curled up on the far end of the couch, a blanket tossed haphazardly over his lap, half-finished drink on the side table.

And the second he sees you, he smiles.

Not wide. Not smug.

Just soft.

Like seeing you filled in something that had been missing.

The warmth that spreads through your chest is immediate. Warm and fuzzy and good. Like sunlight pooling under your skin.

“Hi,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t say anything . Just watches you for a moment longer, eyes soft, before lifting his arm in a wordless invitation.

You don’t hesitate.

You cross the room and settle beside him. The second you’re within reach, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not deep.

Not heated.

Just a quick, soft press of his lips against yours. A hello. A welcome home.

But it still makes your breath catch.

Still makes your skin go hot.

You feel yourself blush almost instantly.

Your fingers tug nervously at the hem of your sleeve as you duck your head slightly, cheeks already burning when he pulls back just enough to see your face.

And of course he notices.

His smile curls, eyes glinting just a little.

“If you’re gonna react like that every time I kiss you,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “I’m never gonna stop doing it.”

Your whole body goes warm.

“Haymitch,” you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

He laughs, quiet and pleased, and you can feel it vibrate through the cushion between you.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t crowd you. Just lets you sit there—red-faced and smiling and soft in the way only he can make you feel.

And god, you missed this today.

You missed him.

The moment you start leaning into him, Haymitch shifts—just enough to make space, just enough to welcome you in like it’s the easiest thing in the world. His arm curls naturally around your waist, tugging you gently closer, and your head finds its way to his chest like it’s been there a hundred times before.

It hasn’t.

But it feels like it has.

He smells like soap and something a little woodsy, like the faint trace of the forest clinging to his clothes from wherever he was earlier. His shirt is soft beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat loud and warm against your ear.

And then his hand moves.

Not far. Not rushed. Just shifts on instinct—settling on your hip, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

It’s nothing. Barely even a touch.

But it sets your nerves on fire.

You swallow hard and try not to shift too obviously.

Your brain—useless traitor that it is—won’t stop playing the earlier kiss on loop. Over and over again. The softness of it. The way he looked at you after. The way you’d felt it in your knees even though it only lasted a second. The way his lips had lingered just long enough to make your whole body ache for more.

You want him to do it again.

Desperately.

You want to lean up and kiss him. To pull his face back toward yours and press your mouth to his until the space between you disappears again. You want to feel the warmth of his hands everywhere. You want his weight. His mouth. His breath against yours.

But you don’t know how to ask for it.

Your stomach flips just thinking about it. And still—your eyes keep flicking toward his jaw, your heart thudding whenever he shifts even slightly, just in case he might kiss you again.

You don’t move, though.

You stay curled against his chest, quiet and still and painfully aware of every inch of where your body touches his.

And all you can think about is how badly you want to taste his mouth again.

You’re not subtle.

You’re trying to be, maybe, but there’s nothing subtle about the way your breath keeps catching or the way your fingers keep curling faintly against his shirt like you’re grounding yourself. Nothing subtle about how still you’ve gone. How heavy the air between you feels now.

And Haymitch notices.

Of course he does.

His thumb pauses where it’s been stroking softly along your hip. Just for a second. Then he shifts slightly beneath you—just enough to glance down, his voice low and knowing.

“If you wanna kiss me again, peach…” His tone is gentle, almost amused. “All you gotta do is ask.”

Your heart stutters so hard you think it might knock the air from your lungs.

You pull back just enough to look at him, face flushed, breath catching. His expression is soft—teasing at the edges, sure, but mostly just fond. The kind of fond that wraps warm around your ribs and holds you there.

Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to.

“Can you kiss me again?”

Haymitch doesn’t smile. Not quite.

But something in his gaze deepens. Warms. Softens like candlelight.

And then he leans in.

His mouth meets yours without hesitation—slow and sure, lips brushing over yours like he’s been thinking about it all day. You melt instantly. Into him, into the kiss, into the quiet hum that rises in your throat before you can stop it.

It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry.

But it’s not nothing, either.

There’s want in it. Emotion. Something deeper.

His hand slips up your back, steadying you as your fingers find their way to his shirt again, clinging lightly. The kiss opens—just a little—and the press of his mouth becomes more intent, more coaxing. Not desperate. Just… thorough. Like he’s savoring the taste of you.

And even though your face is burning and your limbs feel boneless and your heart might actually float out of your chest if he keeps kissing you like this, you kiss him back.

You part just long enough to breathe.

Your lips break away, but you stay close, foreheads nearly touching, noses brushing, breath shared in the space between you like neither of you wants to let the moment go.

And then, like it’s instinct, like he can’t help himself, he leans in again.

You meet him halfway.

The kiss turns fast. Slow melting into heat, heat into fire. His mouth slants over yours like he’s been waiting all day to do this, like he can’t stand not having you this close now that he knows what it’s like.

You gasp softly into him, and he takes it, deepens the kiss without hesitation. His tongue brushes yours and your whole body tightens, skin sparking like every nerve’s been rewired to respond to just him.

You kiss him like you mean it. Like he’s the only steady thing you’ve ever known. Like your heart’s been waiting for this to feel real, to feel right.

And then you feel his hand.

The one not wrapped around your waist moves with quiet purpose, fingers trailing down until it finds the curve of your thigh. He rests his hand there—just that. No pressure, no shift in pace. Just his hand on you. His palm warm through the fabric of your shorts, his thumb brushing once against your skin in a way that makes you shiver.

Not possessive.

Not expectant.

Just… present.

Like he wants to feel you.

Like touching you like this feels natural now.

You melt a little more into him. Every cell in your body short-circuits, nerves sparking at the simple contact. But you don’t stop. You don’t pull away.

Instead, you ground yourself.

Your hand lifts almost without thinking, fingers finding their way to the side of his neck—just beneath his ear, your palm resting along the curve of his shoulder. Your grip is soft, light, but firm enough that you can feel him. His warmth. His steadiness. The way he leans into your touch like he needs it just as much as you do.

The kiss gets messier.

Open-mouthed, deep, the kind that leaves you breathless in the best way. Every brush of his tongue makes your heart stutter. Every little hum in the back of his throat sends shivers down your spine. He tastes like whiskey and warmth and something you don’t have a name for but never want to stop chasing.

You shift closer, like your body doesn’t want a single inch between you. His arm around you tightens instinctively, pulling you flush against him, and your breath catches at the feeling of his body pressed that close—solid and real and his.

His hand on your thigh slides up just a little, palm skimming higher like he wants to feel more of you, like he needs to. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask.

Just kisses you like he’s memorizing you. Like he wants every second of this burned into his bones.

The moment your lips part, the air between you crackles with the warmth you’ve both poured into it.

You’re breathless. Light-headed. Boneless in the best way.

And for some reason—maybe because it all felt so good, or maybe because you still can’t quite believe any of it’s real—you let out the tiniest giggle.

Just a soft little sound, breathy and stunned and helplessly happy.

Haymitch leans back just enough to see your face, one brow raised.

“You laughin’ at me, peach?”

Your giggle turns into a smile so wide it makes your cheeks hurt. “No,” you whisper, breath catching as your fingertips brush the edge of his jaw. “Jus’… happy.”

He huffs a low chuckle, voice warm and rough like it’s scraping the edge of a laugh. “That so?”

You nod.

And he just shakes his head. Fond. A little dazed. Like he doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve this but he’s not about to let it go.

Then, wordlessly, he tugs you gently back into his arms.

There’s no urgency to it. No rush. Just the simple, quiet want to hold you close again now that he knows how it feels.

You go easily, tucking back into his side, your cheek finding its way to his chest once more. His arms wrap around you like instinct, and you let your fingers rest lightly over his ribs as your breath slows to match his.

Nothing more happens.

And nothing needs to.

Not tonight.

Because this—his hand warm on your hip, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips—is enough.

More than enough.

The room has gone quiet again.

Not heavy. Not tense. Just quiet in the way that things get when you’re held in someone else’s warmth and nothing really needs to be said.

But there’s something sitting at the edge of your chest. Something small and fluttery and real.

So you say it.

Quietly.

“Yaminah asked if we’re together now.”

You feel Haymitch shift a little beside you—just a small tilt of his head, his chin brushing your hair. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod against his chest.

“What’d you tell her?”

Your fingers curl slightly against the fabric of his shirt. “That I don’ know.”

It’s the truth.

You really don’t. Not because it doesn’t feel like something—but because you’re still trying to figure out what it is. What it means. What it could be.

Haymitch goes quiet for a second.

Not pulling away.

Not tense.

Just… thinking.

Then, softly, “Do you want to be?”

Your breath catches.

He shifts again, just enough to glance down at you, his voice low and careful. “If you’re comfortable with that. If you want that—us being together.”

There’s no pressure in the way he says it. No expectation. Just open space and soft honesty.

Your stomach flips, but in the good way. The way it always does around him now.

You lift your head just enough to peek up at him, cheeks warm. “I mean…” You fumble a little, words sticking together. “I kinda thought maybe we already were but it was just like….”

His brow lifts, just slightly. His lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile.

“I mean,” you try again, “I—I didn’ think you kissed people you didn’ wanna be with. An’ you told me to stay. An’ I want to. An’ I like you so much it makes my brain all fuzzy, so…” You trail off awkwardly. “Yeah. I want to be. With you. If… if you want to.”

Haymitch’s smile softens into something so warm it makes your heart skip.

He squeezes your hip, pulling you just a little closer. “Peach.”

You blink up at him.

“When she asks again—” his voice is quiet, a little raspy at the edges “—tell her yes.”

You smile. Shy and happy and full of something that feels a lot like home.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word brushing past your lips like a secret.

And he presses a kiss to your hair, his hand still firm and steady on your waist like he doesn’t want you anywhere but right here.

The movie Haymitch eventually put on plays low, a soft hum of sound and shifting light that flickers across the walls.

You’re still curled up against him—your body tucked into his side, head resting on his chest, one of his hands lazily stroking your arm now instead of your waist. His other hand holds the edge of the blanket draped over both of you, thumb idly rubbing the fabric like he’s too content to stop moving altogether.

Neither of you say much.

You don’t need to.

It’s enough just to be here, held like this. Close. Safe. Wanted.

The kind of quiet that used to feel lonely now just feels like peace.

Your eyelids grow heavier the longer you sit like that.

It’s not even that late, really—not technically—but it’s been a long day. Work was slow, but steady. Your heart’s still full from everything you talked about earlier, still soft from all the kissing, still warm from the way he’d looked at you and told you to say yes the next time Yaminah asks.

It’s been a big day.

A good day.

And your body’s starting to feel it.

Haymitch shifts beneath you slightly, just enough to glance down. “You fallin’ asleep on me already, peach?”

You hum, too comfortable to open your eyes. “Mm… maybe.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You smile, small and sleepy, and nuzzle a little closer into his chest.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One second you were watching the movie and the next, you’re blinking your eyes open slowly to the sound of his voice.

“Peach,” he says, soft and low, barely more than a whisper. His hand brushes your arm gently, the warmth of his touch pulling you back to the surface. “C’mon. Time for bed.”

You blink again, bleary and slow. “Oh. Sorry—I didn’ mean to—” You yawn, rubbing at your eyes. “Didn’ mean to fall asleep on you.”

“It’s fine, peach,” he says, voice still quiet. “You were tired.”

You sit up a little, blinking away the haze of sleep as you stretch your arms above your head with a soft groan. Your muscles ache in that heavy, satisfied way, your body still not quite ready to move but trying anyway.

Haymitch stands.

He crosses the room without saying much, flicks the TV off with a soft click, and the room dims around you—only the faint glow of a hallway light spilling across the floor now.

You watch him, a little dazed, expecting him to disappear up the stairs without another word. Which, of course, would mean you need to go to your room too. Back to your bed. Alone.

You hesitate, not ready to move.

Not ready to leave the warmth of where you’d been. Not ready to say goodnight. Not ready for the soft closeness of the night to end just yet.

And then you hear him say it.

“Come on, peach.”

You look up, startled. “What?”

He glances back at you, eyebrows raised just slightly, and then tips his head toward the stairs.

It takes a second for it to register.

And then it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, a little too fast, a little too awkward, scrambling to your feet like you’ve just been caught doing something you’re not supposed to. “Yeah—I—okay.”

You shuffle after him, heart fluttering stupidly in your chest as you follow him up the stairs.

Because you aren’t going to your room.

You’re going with him, to his room.

You hesitate in the doorway.

You’ve never been in here before—Haymitch’s room. It’s dimly lit, quiet, and a little messy in the way you expected. Books piled on the nightstand. A jacket slung over the back of a chair. The bed is made, but not neatly. There’s a comfort to it, though. Lived-in. Warm. It smells like him.

You hover just inside the threshold, unsure of what to do with yourself.

Haymitch, meanwhile, doesn’t seem fazed. He crosses the room casually, rummaging through a drawer before tugging out a pair of soft, worn-looking sweatpants.

“I’m gonna change,” he says simply, nodding toward the bathroom.

You nod too, awkwardly. “Okay.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the quiet feels louder.

You glance around again, arms tucked close to your chest. Your eyes catch on the dent in the pillow where his head must rest each night, the folded blanket at the foot of the bed, the pair of socks peeking out from under the dresser. It’s all so… him. And being in his space like this—intimately, intentionally—makes your heart flutter a little harder.

You drift toward the bed without thinking. Perch gently on the edge of it like you’re scared to wrinkle the comforter. Your hands twist in your lap, eyes darting around the room like you’re memorizing it. The longer you sit, the more awkward you feel. You don’t know where to put your feet. Don’t know if you should lie down. Don’t know how to belong in this space yet.

You’re still debating whether to sit up straighter when the bathroom door opens.

Haymitch steps out, barefoot now, a plain T-shirt on and sweatpants riding low on his hips. His hair is a little mussed. His eyes catch on you immediately, and the sound he makes is a low, amused chuckle.

You blink. “What?”

He crosses to the bed, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re cute when you get all awkward.”

Your cheeks burn. “I’m not awkward.”

“You’re sitting on the corner of the bed like it might explode.”

You glare at him half-heartedly, face flaming. “I’ve never been in here before.”

He just smiles again and slides into bed without another word.

And it hits you—this is happening. You’re sleeping in his bed. With him.

You crawl in slowly, careful not to make the mattress shift too much, and duck under the covers. You haven’t even settled into your pillow fully when he moves.

Haymitch shifts closer, curling up behind you, warm and solid and unhesitating. One arm wraps snugly around your middle, pulling you gently back against his chest, and you feel him exhale like it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

And then his hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt.

His palm finds your waist, warm and broad, his fingers splaying gently across your skin. He doesn’t grip. Doesn’t stroke. Just… rests. Like he wants to feel you. Like this is where his hand belongs.

Your body tenses without meaning to.

Because it’s your stomach. It’s the part of you you’ve never wanted anyone to touch. Not where your skin softens, not where your stretch marks live, not where the curve of you turns into something you’ve been told too many times is too much.

You freeze.

Not because it feels wrong.

Because it feels good.

Too good. Too real. Too terrifying.

And all you can think about is whether he can feel the way your skin dips and folds, whether he’ll pull away when he does.

But he doesn’t move.

His thumb just brushes slow and soft over your side once—like he’s grounding himself, not judging you.

And then he sighs, like he’s content.

You curl up on the couch and reach for the remote, thumb brushing the faded “on” button before you pause. The silence hums around you, and something about it makes you hesitate—like turning on the TV would break the fragile stillness that’s taken root since you got home.

Before you can make up your mind, there’s a knock at the door.

You blink.

Another knock, brisk and cheery.

You rise slowly, unsure. You check the window before pulling it open just enough to peek out.

It’s her.

The same woman from your first day here—the one from the municipal office when you arrived from District 9. You haven’t seen her since. Her hair is tied back in the same neat twist, and she’s holding a manila folder in one hand.

“You’re here, perfect.”

You stare at her for a second too long. “Um. Hi.”

“Sorry to show up unannounced. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by instead of sending someone else.”

You nod slowly. “…Okay?”

“I just wanted to let you know your house is ready!”

You blink.

“Your permanent housing,” she clarifies. “The one you were assigned before the delay? It’s all set now. Ready to move into as soon as you’re ready.”

Your mouth opens.

Then closes.

Then opens again. “Oh.”

“I know it took a little longer than expected, but we got everything sorted. You’ve got a key waiting and everything. Just come by the municipal office whenever you’re ready and we’ll walk you over, show you where it is.”

You nod again, still stunned. “Right. Yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course!” she says, already stepping back. “We’re happy to finally have it ready for you. Just stop by when you can.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

The door closes with a soft click and you’re left standing in the front entryway. You glance down at your socks, then up at the door.

Your house is ready.

Suddenly, the quiet doesn’t feel comforting anymore.

It feels like it’s waiting for something.

You don’t go back to the couch.

Instead, you drift down the hallway like your feet aren’t really yours—like you’re moving through water, slow and heavy and unsure. The bedroom door creaks softly as you push it open. The afternoon light coming through the window has gone golden, slanting across the floor in long strips that don’t reach the bed.

You crawl beneath the blanket anyway.

Not because you’re cold. Just because it feels like the only place soft enough to hold this strange ache blooming in your chest.

You shift your pillow gently and reach underneath, fingers finding the familiar plush curve of your teddy bear’s ear. The second you pull it close, something deep in your ribs eases.

You curl around it without thinking—just tuck your knees up and wrap both arms around its little body, pressing your cheek to the top of its head like you’re five years old again and nothing hurts unless you really think about it.

And then you start thinking.

At first, it’s quiet. Just a flicker.

I don’t want to leave.

But then another thought slips in behind it. One you didn’t mean to open the door for.

What if he wants me to?

Your chest tightens.

You press your face harder into the bear’s fuzzy fur. Try to breathe around the knot forming in your throat.

He hasn’t said anything. You know that. He hasn’t even hinted at it. But he never said he didn’t want you to leave. Maybe he just didn’t know how to bring it up. Maybe he’s been waiting for the moment the house was ready so he could finally have his space back. Maybe all of this—his sweetness, his softness—was because he thought you needed it. Not because he wanted it.

Not because he wanted you.

Your arms tighten around the bear.

He wouldn’t do that. You know he wouldn’t. Haymitch isn’t cruel like that. Not like the boys back home. He never makes you feel like a burden.

But still—what if he wants the space?

What if he wants the quiet again?

What if this whole time, you’ve been the one reading too much into it? What if all these soft little moments between you only meant something because you were the one clinging to them?

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, shame curling in your stomach.

What if this was all temporary to him?

You swallow hard and squeeze your eyes shut.

You don’t want to leave.

Not just because this house has become something familiar. Not just because your room is finally starting to smell like you. Not just because his couch has a dent from where you always sit and you know which cupboard he keeps the crackers in and you like the way he always turns the porch light on when it gets dark and you’re not home yet.

You don’t want to leave because of him.

Because you’re happy here.

Because he’s been more than kind. More than patient. More than everything.

And the idea of waking up in some other house, in some other bed, with no soft hum of the TV down the hall and no voice gruffly calling you peach in the morning—it makes your throat ache.

You grip your teddy bear tighter.

Let the silence press in around you.

And for the first time, you realize how much this house has come to feel like yours. Not because it belongs to you. But because he never made you feel like it didn’t.

And that’s what makes the idea of leaving hurt.

Not the space.

Not the house.

Him.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

Just lying there, curled up with your teddy bear, eyes fixed on the wall across from your bed. Not seeing it, really. Not thinking about anything in particular, not after a while. Just letting your thoughts rise and fall like waves—some soft, some sharp, none of them staying long enough to be named.

The light in the room changes, golden shifting to amber, amber dipping into the gray of early dusk.

You don’t mean to lose time.

But at some point, you must, because the next thing you’re aware of is the front door opening.

It’s quiet—just the soft click of the latch and the familiar sound of boots on wood. A sigh. The brush of fingers against the wall where the light switch is. A muttered word under his breath when it doesn’t come on right away. You hear the thunk of something being set down. Keys? A bag?

Then footsteps.

Slow. Familiar. Headed for the kitchen first.

You stay frozen.

Not out of fear.

But because every nerve in your body is suddenly aware of him.

He’s home.

And despite the panic still twisting in your chest—despite the thousand versions of what if still spiraling behind your ribs—everything inside you wants to go to him.

Not because you have the words yet. Not because you know how to say it.

Just because being near him feels like the only thing steady in the whole world.

Your fingers flex around your bear. Your breath hitches.

And still, your body aches toward him like a compass to north.

You don’t rush.

You just… move.

Slowly. Quietly.

You set your teddy bear gently back beneath your pillow, give it one last squeeze, and push yourself upright. Your legs are stiff. Your heart is worse. But you go down the hall anyway, arms crossed loosely over your stomach, breath held somewhere behind your ribs.

The glow from the living room meets you first. It’s soft—muted gold from the lamp in the corner, flickering a little like maybe it’s on the edge of going out. The television hums low, some old movie casting shifting shadows across the couch cushions.

He’s there.

Haymitch.

Laid out on the far side of the couch, one ankle crossed over the other, a book propped open against his thigh. He glances up when you enter, brows lifting slightly in a silent hey.

You don’t say anything.

You just move toward him.

He watches you—not suspicious, not surprised. Just aware. Like he always is when it comes to you.

You sit down.

Not at the far end. Not halfway.

Right beside him.

Close enough that the fabric of your shirt brushes his elbow. Close enough that you can smell the faint trace of whiskey clinging to his skin. Close enough that you feel his attention shift entirely to you, even when his gaze drops briefly back to the book in his lap.

For a second, you don’t move.

Then, quietly—so naturally it makes your chest ache—he lifts one arm and tucks you into his side.

Like he’s done it a thousand times.

Like you’re already his.

Your body follows on instinct. You lean in without thinking, head resting against his shoulder, arm coming to rest across his stomach.

And once you’re there—once his arm is around you and his warmth is pressed solid against your side—you feel the spiral begin again.

Not wild. Not fast. Just steady.

Because this is what you’ll lose if you move into that house.

This.

The gentle weight of his arm around you. The way he hums softly when you settle in. The scent of his skin. The heat of his body. The way the silence between you always feels full instead of empty. Like a place to be, not just a place to hide.

You don’t know if things would change.

You don’t know if they wouldn’t.

But the thought of coming home to an empty house after this—after him—is unbearable in a way that sinks low in your belly and won’t leave.

And still, you stay quiet.

Because you don’t know what he’ll say.

And you’re not sure which answer would break you more.

The silence stretches.

Not awkward. Not heavy. Just full.

Like the kind that settles in after something’s shifted but neither of you has figured out how to say it yet.

Haymitch doesn’t rush it.

He keeps his arm around you, thumb brushing faintly back and forth over your arm like it’s second nature. His eyes stay on the book, but you can feel the part of him that’s focused only on you. The part that’s waiting.

And after a long stretch of nothing but low voices from the screen and the sound of your own breath, “You alright?”

It’s soft.

Just a murmur, half-casual. But you know him well enough by now to hear the thread of something real in it. Something careful. A quiet kind of worried.

You swallow thickly.

Your body stays still, curled into him, but your heart kicks hard once against your ribs.

“Yeah,” you whisper, but it doesn’t even sound true to your own ears.

Haymitch makes a small noise in his throat. Not pressing. Just… patient.

The kind that says I can wait if you need me to. But I know something’s off.

You stay quiet for a second longer.

Then you shrug.

It’s small. Barely more than a lift of your shoulder against his chest.

And then, softer than anything, like the words are made of fragile glass, “I’m scared.”

He shifts beside you.

Not away. Just closer, facing you more. His attention narrowing to a point.

“Of what?” he asks, voice a little more serious now.

You bite the inside of your cheek. You don’t want to say it.

Because saying it feels like breaking something.

But you do anyway.

“I found out today the house I was s’posed to move into,” you whisper, eyes locked on a crack in the coffee table. “It’s finally ready.”

The words hover between you like they don’t know where to land.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything right away, but you feel his arm tighten around you. Just slightly.

And it’s enough to make your throat burn.

Haymitch stays quiet. Long enough that you almost regret saying anything. That knot behind your ribs coils tighter with every second he doesn’t answer, your breath caught somewhere between hope and dread.

“Why’s that make you scared?” His voice is low. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to startle the truth out of you, just invite it.

You stare at your hand for a moment longer. At the way your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt like they might anchor you to him.

Slowly, you turn your head and look at him.

He’s watching you, but not in a way that overwhelms. Just waiting again. Like always.

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Because I don’ wanna leave,” you say, and the words tremble as they fall, “but I’m scared you want me to.”

The second it leaves your mouth, your throat burns.

Like saying it made it real.

You blink fast. Try not to look away. Try not to let the fear close in before he even responds.

But Haymitch doesn’t pull back.

He doesn’t scoff. Or smirk. Or sigh like he’s disappointed.

He just blinks once. His whole face softens.

And even before he answers, you feel it in your chest. That ache that tells you he’s not going to let you spiral.

That maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one who doesn’t want this to end.

“I don’t want you to leave, peach.”

He says it so softly you almost wonder if you imagined it.

His eyes are on yours. Steady. Unflinching. Like he means every word of it and wants to make sure you know that.

You nod.

Not because you know what to say. You don’t.

But because something behind your ribs eases at the sound of those words.

You don’t even realize your hand has drifted toward his until your fingers brush his wrist. It’s not a question. Just contact. Quiet and needed.

Your voice comes a second later, quiet and raw.

“I dunno what my life’d be like if I hadn’ met you,” you whisper. “And I don’ wanna know what it’d be like without you in it now that I’ve gotten so used to you always bein’ there.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy.

It’s full.

Full of everything you’re both feeling but haven’t figured out how to say yet. Everything that’s building between you in the soft moments and late nights and the way your worlds have started to curve around each other.

Haymitch doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t make a joke to deflect.

He just watches you like you hung the stars he drinks under.

And without needing to ask, you know.

He doesn’t want to lose this either.

You don’t move away from him. Don’t even lean back to breathe. Your fingers are still brushing his wrist, and he doesn’t seem interested in letting the contact break.

When he finally speaks again, it’s low. Soft. Almost like he’s afraid to spook the moment.

“You ever think about how we almost missed each other?”

Your heart stumbles.

Your brows draw together.

He doesn’t look at you, just stares ahead, like he’s watching a memory that hasn’t faded yet.

“You could’ve ended up in Twelve after I’d already drunk myself into a grave.” A small huff of breath. “Could’ve walked right past me every day for a year and I never woulda looked up long enough to see you.”

You blink, a little stunned.

His eyes are warm and open and bare in a way that makes your breath catch.

“But you didn’t,” he says. “You showed up. You knocked on my front door and started making everything feel a little less empty. A little more worth waking up for.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again.

Nothing comes out.

Your chest is a tangle of emotion, throat thick and tight, but he’s still looking at you like he’s got nowhere else to be, like there’s not a single other thing he’d rather be doing than watching your face turn bright red.

“Thas’ not fair,” you mumble, ducking your head as your whole body goes warm. “You can’ jus’ say stuff like that.”

His lips twitch. Barely.

“Sure I can.”

“Haymitch.”

“Peach.”

You groan softly, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes.

“I’m gonna melt into the couch if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he drawls, leaning just a little closer, his voice still light but laced with something quieter. “I like when you get all flustered. Means I’m saying things you need to hear.”

Your breath hitches.

And suddenly you’re looking at him again.

Close. Closer than you realized. His gaze right there. And you can feel it in the air between you. That slow, simmering want. The kind that builds steady, the kind that doesn’t rush, but god, does it burn.

You don’t look away. You can’t. His eyes are still locked on yours, warm and steady and sure, and the air between you feels like it could catch fire if either of you breathe too hard.

Then, slowly—so slowly—Haymitch shifts a little closer. Not a lunge. Not a grab. Just the smallest movement forward, like he’s giving you time to stop him. Like he’s giving you the choice.

Your breath hitches.

But you don’t move. You don’t lean away. You don’t pull back.

You just stay there, wide-eyed and breathless, heart pounding loud enough you’re sure he must feel it.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

Then lifts again.

Another half-inch forward. His palm slides up your arm, slow and steady, fingers warm against your skin. His thumb brushes the curve of your shoulder. Gentle. Grounding.

You still don’t move.

And that’s all he needs.

His mouth finds yours with a softness that steals the air from your lungs.

Not rough. Not urgent.

Just real.

Like a question you’ve both been answering in a thousand silent ways for weeks without knowing how to say it out loud.

You melt into it.

Because how could you not?

He tastes like whiskey and safety and something deeper than either of those things. His lips move slow against yours, coaxing, exploring, like he’s memorizing the shape of your want. And for all the ways your thoughts stutter and scatter, your body knows exactly what to do.

You kiss him back.

Tentative at first.

Then deeper. Warmer.

The tension that’s been building between you doesn’t snap—it unravels. Thread by thread, like you’re both learning what it means to be wanted like this. To be chosen.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests gently against yours.

You’re both quiet for a moment.

Both still catching your breath.

His hand finds yours between you and links your fingers together without saying a word.

And when you finally open your eyes and look at him—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, heart still galloping behind your ribs—he just smiles.